


Arvaarad

by Dark and Stormy (betagyre)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Blood Mage Hawke, Blood Magic, Conditional Major Character Death, Crisis of Faith, Desire Demons (Dragon Age), Dubious Consent, F/M, Grey Wardens, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Love/Hate, Mind Control, Not A Fix-It, Pregnant Hawke, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers, Two Endings, Unhealthy Relationships, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/Dark%20and%20Stormy
Summary: She clenched her fist, squeezing the open wound threateningly. A single red drop trickled down as she snarled, “You know what I am. You saw what I did to the Templars. And if you ever touch me again, I will do it to you, abomination.”Caitlyn Hawke had been too blind to see what was happening and save him, and too weak and sentimental to kill him. No one would remember that she had rejected his deed, cursed him, and told him to leave at first. What Kirkwall would remember was their Champion striking down Templars with blood magic, the mage who had destroyed their Chantry—her partner—beside her. In the end she decided that she had to leave with him, not because she backed him, but because she thought itjusticefor her own failures that she should have this fate.Fate, however, had interesting plans for both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (with spoilers):** In case the list of tags didn’t make it clear, there is some pretty dark content in the story. It is not a fix-it (i.e., no retcon of the DA2 ending). It is, in my opinion, the darkest thing I have ever written, bar none. There is a very good chance that something (or multiple somethings) in the first two chapters of this fic will trigger/upset you. 
> 
> If you know you are not going to be OK reading about revenge-driven verbal and physical abuse in the form of violent magic— _and_ magical mind control (Hawke  > Anders for all the physical abuse except one instance caused by Vengeance), dubiously consensual (Anders > Hawke) alcohol-induced hate sex, or a suicidal crisis, DO NOT READ CHAPTER ONE OR TWO.
> 
> **Notes:** This began as a one-shot that consisted of the material in what is now chapters 1 and 2, and I expanded it a little later. The reason behind this fic is that I found myself dissatisfied with either “disapproval” non-romance friendship ending for Anders’ fate. I first played the execution, and when I was disturbed by that, I reloaded the save, spared him, and told him to get out. However, there are problems with that choice too. It’s very irresponsible of Hawke to send him away by himself, all things considered. (I know he doesn’t do anything else in game canon, but _Hawke_ wouldn’t have known that.) One way or the other, Hawke must take responsibility to prevent him from causing further harm. If Hawke is going to spare him, s/he _should_ join him for that reason. However, apparently the “runaways” ending suggests that s/he forgives him pretty quickly, which I _also_ don’t like. This story is my attempt to write a satisfying conclusion to this conundrum... and it ended up making me ship them. xD
> 
> The Qunari who control their leashed saarebas (mages) are the Arvaarad. I played my Hawke as a blood mage who unlocked the entire spell tree, so I think that the Qunari concept works for what she would do to him in this very dark “runaways” scenario.
> 
> Special note for readers of my _Harry Potter-Dragon Age II_ crossover fic: This is a different Hawke than the one in that story, who behaves differently than that Hawke behaves (crossover-story!Hawke is not a blood mage and is stronger of will and more balanced than this one), and I’ve given her a different first name to keep that distinction.

**(I) Fate’s Paintbrush**

His enthusiasm sickened her.

They had a battle to fight, and so she did not let it destroy her focus when it counted most, but afterward was a different matter.

She had not really expected either herself or any of her friends to survive. This, Caitlyn Hawke supposed, was likely to be the last stand, so she brushed aside Anders’ enthusiasm for the idea of running away “together”— _as if I’m his co-conspirator! As if he didn’t just murder hundreds of innocents, and lie to me in order to make me an unknowing accomplice!_ she thought in fury—as something that would swiftly be rendered irrelevant by the red brush of death. She wouldn’t have to actually go through with it. She wouldn’t have to face her friends, the friends who had agreed to fight with her, to slay Templars in defense of mages for her—even those who were skeptical of mages like Fenris and Aveline. No, surely they would all fall together. She wouldn’t have to look Fenris in the eye as she left Kirkwall at daybreak with Anders… right? It would all be painted over in red. It made sense to her: She had been unable to give Anders the death he deserved, so fate would make _her_ pay that toll. She wouldn’t have to take responsibility in life for her weakness, because they would all pay the price in death.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans for them. _None_ of her friends had died. Sebastian had _left,_ swearing to make war on Kirkwall, abusing the secular army of Starkhaven for religious purposes, but she had not encountered him or his corpse at any point that dark night. And everyone else had been with her in the Gallows courtyard that night, fighting beside her, as she unleashed hemorrhage after paralyzing hemorrhage upon the Templars, felling them in a river of blood, nailing her flag to the mast for anyone in Kirkwall to see. _Meredith was right. Blood mages are everywhere,_ she thought darkly.

Fenris was shocked and appalled, and Caitlyn was sure she saw the moment that it registered with him exactly how she had learned this magic. A looted book, taken from a Tevinter ruin several years ago, when they were tracking down slavers who were hunting him. Yes, he _would_ see this as a betrayal. Caitlyn remembered how she had tried to avoid casting these spells whenever he was on a mission with her. She had cast her normal, “respectable” spells _as_ a blood mage, but it was possible to conceal that if one was careful. It wasn’t possible to conceal it when Templars collapsed in pools of their own blood, when one or two “mysteriously” started fighting their fellow Templars, when whirls of red vapor coalesced around Caitlyn and she suddenly began casting with the vigor she’d had at the start of battle, stealing life force from the dead and the living to replenish herself.

Fenris had had nothing to say to her when Knight-Captain… no, Knight- _Commander_ Cullen and his battalion let them pass. The look of dark cynicism in his elven eyes told her everything she needed to know: Another mage turns to blood magic. _Oh, Fenris._ As he left through the gates, she felt an indescribable pang for what she could have had… she _had_ had a crush on him, and she _could_ have made more of it, she knew she could’ve, if only….

Through Carver, she’d even got the Grey Wardens involved in this. An old bit of Fereldan history came to her briefly, in the heat of battle, the history of the Grey Wardens who rebelled against the King of Ferelden and were banished from the country for centuries for their attempted overthrow of the throne. _Oh, Carver. What have I done?_

“Take the dog,” she finally said to him just as he was leaving. “Go to the house and take the dog.”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” he reminded her.

“The Hero of Ferelden had a mabari,” she countered. “Please, Carver. Or… if they really won’t let you have him… give him to Fenris.” She was sure that, for all the elf’s disappointment in her, he wouldn’t reject her dog. A dog would be good for him, a companion who trusted him unconditionally. Fenris had met her Lloyd, and he liked him.

As they made their farewells, they all gazed at her with varying degrees of sadness, disappointment, and regret. Merrill, Isabela, and Varric were the least judgmental—but then, she had never actually chastised Merrill for blood magic, just for consorting with demons. _I could have had something with either of these women—or both of them—too,_ Caitlyn thought in despair. _Perhaps Keeper Marethari would even be alive today if I had taught Merrill from my book, taught her how to use this magic without involving demons._

“Hawke,” Varric had said, taking her aside. “Are you _really_ going to do this?” He gazed with disgust at Anders, who was standing by, a despicable lovestruck smile on his face.

Caitlyn wanted to hit him. –No, she wanted to do much worse than that. Her fists tingled with the heated urge, the thrum, _thump-thump,_ deep in her arteries….

She turned back to Varric. “He can’t be set loose. It’s either kill him or take control of him,” she said gruffly, her voice too low for the abomination to hear.

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Want me to do it? I have no problem doing it if it’s too much for you.” He patted the side of Bianca. “I don’t think I could put a bolt through her namesake no matter what. I understand how you feel, Hawke. Just say the word.”

It was tempting. Oh, it was tempting. One arrow, and she would have her friends back. She might even have the confidence of the new Knight-Commander. But there was a world of difference between Varric doing it on his own and her _telling_ him to do it. Anyone could have struck Anders down in battle, and Caitlyn was surprised that some of them hadn’t tried. But that just reinforced the horrible, dark truth: He was _her_ responsibility, because he was _her_ failure. No one else was going to let her off the hook for her failure to see what was happening to him, her failure to tell the Grand Cleric to have the Chantry searched, her failure to even _try_ a ritual to detach the possessing spirit, and then her failure to exact justice upon him.

She shook her head. Varric gave Anders the stinkiest of all possible stink-eyes, then turned to her with pity. “Take care, Hawke,” he said—and then he stepped through the gates as well, behind all of the others.

All except one.

He approached her eagerly, that inappropriate, stupid-ass smile on his face, so sure that she had forgiven him for what he had done—or Vengeance had done—or _whatever._ Caitlyn didn’t know how such things worked in abominations, nor did she care to find out—but most likely, she would, whether she liked it or not.

“I still can’t believe that you—” he began to say. He never finished the sentence.

She still had open wounds. A surge of magically infused anger filled her body. He dropped to the ground, clawing at his throat.

“Let’s get something straight,” she hissed, feeling through her magic, her blood grip on him, as his windpipe constricted. “You belong to me now, for the protection of everyone around us. We are not _partners.”_ She held him in limbo, considering, as a useful vocabulary word came to her mind from a mission years ago. “Henceforth, I am your _arvaarad.”_

He gasped for breath. At last, she released him, leaving him sprawling on the ground, gasping for air.

“Get up,” she snapped, heaving him by that black-feathered coat he wore. “And if you—or that thing inside you—tries anything, remember what I can do.”

* * *

**(II) Hostility**

He was moody for the entire day as they trekked toward rural Nevarra. She had no sympathy for him, shooting him glares of irritation whenever he had the gall to huff or whenever she detected a sneer.

Finally he spoke about what was bothering him. “I know that you picked up that book in that labyrinth when we tracked down the apprentice of that Magister Danarius,” he said abruptly, “and I know what it contained. I can read Arcanum too. But the spells you used last night—”

Caitlyn could not believe her ears. Outraged, she whirled around and grabbed him by his feathered shoulders. “You dare to condemn me?” she snarled. “You _dare?_ You, of all people?”

He jerked loose and faced her. “I could say the same to you. How many people have you killed over the years?”

“No, you couldn’t,” she retorted. “You _really_ couldn’t. Perhaps you never learned this basic moral concept, but there is a difference between killing people who are trying to kill you, and murdering innocents.”

“You used blood magic to do it!”

“I have used blood magic for _three years!”_ she shouted. “Did you never realize that, Anders? You never noticed how I didn’t drink lyrium the heat of battle, unlike you?”

He hesitated, racking his brains, reconsidering his memories.

“I have cast with my blood for years,” she repeated. “And as for the spells I used last night, what, exactly, is the difference between killing a man with fire and killing him by bleeding him, as a swordsman would do? Dead is dead.”

“For three years… and not once… no demons—”

“No, I think you have that ground covered for both of us.”

He scowled. “You lied to me about this for so long.”

Caitlyn snapped. She slapped him across the face, noting in alarm the momentary purplish-blue flash in his eyes. “You’re a good one to talk about lying!” she exclaimed. “You _lied_ to me about what you were doing with those ingredients and what you needed me to distract the Grand Cleric for. You _lied_ and made me an unwitting accomplice to mass murder!”

“I _said_ I was sorry about that.”

“Oh, just shut up. You’re only sorry that it upset me. Just—don’t talk. I mean it. Do not talk. If you open your yap again, I will close it _for_ you.”

“I’m quite sure that you could turn me into your blood thrall like you did to those Templars,” he said. “Is that what you mean? Do it, then. If you threaten it, do it. It might even be good for me. _My_ will certainly isn’t strong enough to overpower Justice.”

“So you want to make it my job to do what you couldn’t do.”

“Isn’t that what you took upon yourself?” he said maddeningly. “It’s worth a try. Do it.”

“You think I won’t?”

He stopped, gazed at her, and turned aside. “I think you won’t.”

She clenched her fist, feeling her blood pulse, waiting, waiting, her magical strength gathering—reaching out for his mind—

Her will to do it dissipated.

He gazed pointedly at her, then turned ahead as they continued silently through the countryside.

* * *

Eventually, they had to talk. If nothing else, they had to agree on a course of action.

“I want to be on the front lines,” Anders insisted. “The mages are about to wage war for their freedom. I—we—should be there!”

Caitlyn regarded him with contempt. Could someone truly be this dense, this oblivious? Was _this_ what came of housing a Fade spirit in one’s own body? Spirits, even the very best— _even those that were not corrupted into becoming demons,_ Caitlyn thought bitterly—did not think the same way that living people did. They were not pragmatic; they could not see multiple points of view, because their inherent nature was to represent single ideas. “Your presence there would be a rallying point… for the Templars,” she said icily. “Do you think that Enchanter Orsino’s reaction to your interference would be unique among the mages? Nobody wants your ‘help.’”

He turned away, stunned. “Orsino. That would be the same Orsino who turned himself into a mound of dead flesh? Why should I care about his opinions?”

“You are truly the biggest hypocrite on the face of Thedas.”

He glared at her. “Are you sure that’s the word you mean? When did I ever pile up dead bodies onto myself with blood magic? That’s a lot closer to what _you_ did, stealing life away from your enemies in battle to reinvigorate yourself.”

The ugly, horrible truth hit her with the sting of a wyvern’s poison. _“Fuck_ you,” she hissed. “Fuck you. Forget I even asked. _I’ll_ decide where we go and what we do.”

He paused, his eyes _not_ flashing with the presence of Justice/Vengeance, to Caitlyn’s surprise. “You do that,” he said abruptly.

“I will.”

* * *

They made camp that night in an isolated, remote wilderness far west of Kirkwall. Few settlers, if any, lived there, and any Dalish travelers would not disturb them. The Dalish did not pick fights with people who were not provoking them in any way. That Caitlyn had learned from Merrill.

To her utter fury, Anders expected to share her tent.

 _“You_ are going to sleep in _your_ tent,” she said harshly. “You already have company. You don’t get two companions. You’ve made your choice, and you prefer Vengeance. I am neither a man nor a Fade spirit, unfortunately for you.”

He glared back at her. “Why are you acting this way? Just two nights ago, you—”

Caitlyn’s ears burned hot with that memory. “Two nights ago, I had a partner, not a manipulator who tricked me into being an accomplice to mass murder and terrorism. Or,” she corrected herself, “I didn’t _know_ what my supposed partner really was.”

There was a dark, deadly silence. Then he spoke. “Funny. Two nights ago, I had a partner too, not a maleficar who tricked me for three years. Or so I believed.”

“Just because you _think_ there is a moral equivalency does not mean that there truly is.”

Another dark silence. “As you like, Caitlyn.”

“Why did you blow up the _Chantry?”_ she burst out, the unspoken question finally out in the open. “Not that I condone such acts—but as you say, I _did_ kill Templars with blood magic. If you felt that you had to commit such an act, why not do it to the Templar barracks? Or why not murder Meredith in a dark alley and any who would defend her? They’re the ones who slaughtered children that night in the Right of Annulment. The priests didn’t do anything! The Grand Cleric was a reasonable woman who listened to both sides. I went before her _as an apostate mage,_ Anders! My staff was strapped to my back! She knew. She wasn’t the enemy. Her priests weren’t enemies. Even”—Caitlyn grimaced as she spoke, but so it was—“the late Mother Petrice wasn’t an enemy of mages. Remember when she asked us to deal with that Qunari mage?”

“She did that in bad faith. All she cared about was whipping up the populace against the Qunari.”

“Yes, but she _was_ willing to work with a mage. And the Qunari are even worse to us than the Circles are.”

“Unless they’re Annulling mages,” Anders said sarcastically. “Hmm, what is worse? Circles that restrict us but don’t kill us—oh, unless we fail our Harrowings? Qunari, who leash us and sew our mouths shut? Or lunatics like Meredith who order mass killing?” He grabbed her. “Maker, Caitlyn, can’t _you_ of all people see that there should be better options than _any_ of those?”

“There should be!” she exclaimed, breaking away from him. “I’ve always agreed with you about that! But you went too far, Anders. What you did was evil, and if you don’t care about that—or if Vengeance—”

“Justice.”

“—if _Vengeance_ doesn’t care about that,” Caitlyn insisted, “don’t you at least care that your deed was counterproductive?”

He stared ahead stonily. “It has sparked war.”

“Is that what you wanted? Think hard before you answer that, Anders.”

He continued to stare ahead.

* * *

He still wanted to share her tent.

“You will not,” she insisted. “You have some nerve to expect to touch me.”

“I don’t ‘expect to touch you,’” he said.

“Then what is your reason for wanting to share my tent?”

He was silent.

“I thought so,” Caitlyn said nastily.

That night, she waited until he was drowsy before casting the most powerful sleep spell she knew. Two nights ago, sharing a tent would have been delightful. Now, the mere thought of it filled her with shame.

* * *

**(III) Regrets and Catharsis**

They finally reached a rustic inn in a questionable outpost just across the Nevarran border. Word of the events in Kirkwall had not yet reached these parts, Caitlyn quickly determined by eavesdropping. These were very provincial farmers, mostly, and they gazed warily at the two cloaked, hooded, rain-sodden travelers entering the inn.

Caitlyn did not want any attention. She did not want these wary-eyed Nevarrans to figure out that the long weapons that she and Anders carried, wrapped up and attached to their backs, were not greatswords, but mage staves. Most of all, she did not want to risk a public Vengeance outburst from her… charge, she supposed. She took a single room and carried their dinner upstairs, out of the sight of everyone else at the inn.

It wasn’t great food, but it was sufficient to quiet the pangs of hunger. Caitlyn supposed, bitterly, that she likely would not eat well again—at least, until she reached her intended destination, which she finally decided to discuss with Anders.

 _Tell Anders,_ she corrected herself in thought. He did not have a vote in the matter— _not one vote, and sure as the Void not two,_ she thought darkly.

“I have decided that we are going to make for the Frostbacks, and failing that, the areas of Ferelden south of Ostagar,” she announced to him.

He eyed her. “That’s a long journey. Do you intend to travel overland?”

“Obviously. I won’t have either of us on a ship. We’re too recognizable.”

He pondered that. “What is your goal in doing this?”

“We’re going to seek refuge among the Avvar, the Chasind, or the remaining Ferelden Dalish. The Crown awarded them a parcel of land as thanks for Warden Mahariel’s sacrifice in ending the Blight.”

His eyes widened in protest. “Live with primitive barbarian tribes?”

“Merrill would hex you for that,” she spat.

“Merrill isn’t _here,”_ he said nastily, “in case you haven’t noticed. I’m the only one who didn’t desert you. They _all_ left you, even your precious fellow maleficar. Even your own _brother.”_

That one struck target. Caitlyn stormed across the room and towered over the other mage, who sat defiantly on the bed, meeting her gaze.

“You are an ass,” she snarled. “A complete _ass._ I don’t know how I never noticed it before. I guess you never directed it at me until now, just a former _slave_ and a sweet, cast-out elf. I’d say you just had a problem with elves… but of course, I’m a target _now,_ it seems. You had _no reason—”_ She collected herself. “We are going to settle among one of the tribes. That’s the end of it.”

“You actually mean to sit out the war? Are you serious? How could you do that?”

“We are not participating in any war that breaks out. No, Anders, we’re _not,”_ she said sternly as he glared at her in objection. “I have explained how it’s going to be, period. It’s possible that there won’t even be a war as long as polarizing people like the former Champion of Kirkwall or her pet abomination don’t show our faces—”

He slammed his hand on the table beside the bed and stood up, magic swirling from his palms, his expression outraged. Fortunately, there were no signs of the demon—this was all him, for what that was worth—but Caitlyn nonetheless readied her own magical energy just in case. They were barely a foot away from each other. If she had to curse him, it would _hurt._

“What is wrong with you?” he exclaimed. “I haven’t had a kind word from you in days, just commands, insults, and invective! You’ve been utterly hostile from the moment we left Kirkwall!”

“If you truly don’t know—if you actually have to ask me that—then you’re even denser than I thought,” she replied. “In that case, just ask that voice in your head for clarification. He should have an intimate understanding of _exactly_ why I am being ‘hostile’ to you. My reason for it is his identity now, after all.”

Stunned at the implication, Anders drew back with an angry glare. “Frankly, I don’t know why you even bothered to keep me around.”

“Because I’m not about to turn a murderous possessed tainted thing loose again.”

“Just stop,” he snapped. “Just fucking stop. You don’t _have_ to say that _all_ the time. I get the idea.”

“Then don’t question my decisions. You have proved that you can’t be trusted with decision-making yourself… or with the advice of your ‘muse.’”

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“What have I said that isn’t true?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Nothing… maleficar.”

At this point, Caitlyn knew that this could go on all night—and that she didn’t have the energy for it. She collapsed on the side of the bed, a few feet away from him, and rested her head in her hands, covering her eyes. A huge sigh escaped her.

 _It’s not productive,_ she thought bleakly. _It’s cathartic in the immediate term, but it is not productive. Vengeance usually isn’t… and I, of all people, knew that. That was the lesson I tried to impart to him. Now I’m falling to it myself. What is wrong with us? What is wrong with everyone?_

“I’ll get drinks,” she finally said, rising from the bed again. Her voice was tired and heavy. She left the room at once, barely considering the fact that she had left him unwatched.

Once she was downstairs, she realized what she had done. Urgently she purchased two bottles of wine and hurried back up the stairs. It wasn’t that she truly thought that Vengeance would take him over in such a brief period of time, with no obvious provocation, but this was a dereliction of the duty she had taken upon herself. _I can’t just put aside my responsibility because I want a drink,_ she chastised herself as she entered the room again.

Sure enough, nothing untoward had happened. Caitlyn was not even sure that Anders had moved. Wordlessly she passed him one bottle, keeping the other for herself.

 _This is a bad idea,_ a voice in her head—her own, at least, she thought—whispered.

He used a force spell to suck the cork out and immediately took a long pull straight from the wine bottle. Hawke grimaced, but she hadn’t seen any wineglasses—at least, any that the innkeeper would entrust to two strangers passing through. She removed the cork from hers and sipped her wine more slowly. It wasn’t bad. Allegedly, it was a Tevinter vintage, since Antivan wine was fairly expensive this far from that country. This was not a high-end wine, but Caitlyn supposed that it might actually be what it claimed to be.

Anders had noticed the bottle as well. His eyes gleamed—normally, humanly, Caitlyn noticed. “Did you pick this because of where it came from?” he asked—and his voice was so curious, so pleased, so _normal,_ that it almost destroyed her to hear him ask her this question about a topic of interest to him, as if it were old times and nothing had happened.

 _We’ll never be “normal” again,_ she thought bitterly. “I picked it because there was no Antivan,” she finally said. “So, in a way, I suppose—yes.”

“Mmm.” After that noncommittal murmur, he continued to drink. Nearby, Caitlyn sipped silently, staring out the window at nothing in particular. Her thoughts were far afield.

 _I wonder where all the others are,_ she thought. _I hope they’re all right. All of them can take care of themselves, at least—except possibly Merrill. I worry about her. I should have made her come, damn it! I should have brought her with us. I really hope she’s all right. I hope that Varric or Isabela took her under their wing. She always got on well with both of them._ Oddly—though perhaps it wasn’t so odd—Caitlyn found it easier to imagine Isabela taking on Merrill as a second than Varric. Varric didn’t have lieutenants, for one. He had a network of informers that he always kept at arm’s length. Isabela was different. She was a ship’s captain; she did like working with a crew. Yes, Isabela would have been the one to take care of Merrill.

Caitlyn’s thoughts turned darker. _What a twisted, evil irony it is that the maleficar who trafficked with demons has the least blood on her hands, whereas the one who didn’t deal with demons, and the mage who offers a demon houseroom but isn’t a blood mage, have enough blood on our hands to fill a lake._

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. She felt her face grow hot and a lump form in her throat. Suppressing a sniffle for the friends that she feared she would never see again, she put the wine bottle—still half full—aside and wiped her nose.

 _I’m definitely going to seek out the Fereldan Dalish,_ she decided. _I’m going to find them, and I will contact Merrill—somehow—and tell her to join us there, in a new clan. That’s what I’ll do. I won’t expect them to admit me to their clan, since I don’t even have elven ancestry, but I’ll live nearby, trade with them, live with them as a neighbor, and give Merrill a home among her people again. And—_ Caitlyn’s thoughts quickened with excitement and hope as her slightly tipsy mind hopped eagerly aboard this caravan— _maybe the Keeper of that clan will even be able to do that ritual Keeper Marethari performed that let me banish the demons that were bothering Feynriel. Maybe I can—_

A brush of feathers against her shoulders interrupted her pleasant fantasy. Caitlyn whipped her head around and found herself face-to-face with Anders, whose bottle of wine was empty. It fell to the floor, shattering to pieces and further distracting her. In the process, one of his hands found her waist.

She didn’t think; she just reacted. Her palm connected with his cheek once again, the slap piercing the room and instantly putting a pink handprint on that side of his face. However, he was drunk enough that he barely reacted except to cast a mild healing spell on himself.

“Come on,” he urged, his eyes greedy and all too human right now. “Don’t do that. It’s healthier to get it out of our systems this way—”

She rose to her feet and faced him menacingly, picking up a shard of glass and slashing her left palm open. “That is _over.”_ She clenched her fist, squeezing the open wound threateningly. A single red drop trickled down as she snarled, “You know what I am. You saw what I did to the Templars. And if you _ever_ touch me again, I will do it to you, _abomination.”_

He drew back like a spring recoiling. “You mean it?”

“By the Void, I mean it.”

“I mean, you _really did_ come with me to—to _control_ me?” His voice was disbelieving and rather horrified.

“I am not responsible for your limitless capacity to delude yourself.”

He scowled. “More insults?”

“You earned every one of them.”

He did not reply to that. A cold, potent silence lay between them. Finally he spoke again, though it was not in direct response to her last statement.

“Fine. As you wish.” He gazed at her bleeding palm. “Shall I heal that, or do you have some blood magic method of doing it yourself?”

“I _could_ heal it from _your_ life force,” Caitlyn said.

“I’m sure you could. I’m sure you know every one of those tricks by now.”

“I do.”

Another cold silence. Caitlyn glared at him, waved her uninjured hand over her other one, and watched in smug satisfaction as Anders shuddered and flinched. A small swirl of red flew from his body to her sliced palm, closing the wound and healing it.

He breathed heavily, winded and lightheaded from the spell, and rested his head in his hands to recover from it. Caitlyn watched him, aware that she might have pushed too far this time, but wondering what would happen. If Vengeance made an appearance—a nonzero possibility, she recognized—it would be satisfying indeed to attack him. Not kill him—but then, she hadn’t had to kill him in Corypheus’ prison either when Vengeance took him over.

He raised his head, and once again, his gaze was completely human—but it was also utterly furious. “You did it,” he said in disbelief. “You really did it. You actually _did that to me.”_

Caitlyn was frightened, but she kept a façade of courage. “I told you I was willing to use blood magic against you if necessary. As I just said, I am not responsible for your self-delusion.”

“That _wasn’t_ necessary!” he exploded. “You just wanted to hurt me, _again._ I’m not the only one with a Vengeance problem, clearly!”

“At least in my case, it’s my _own_ decision and not that of a squatter,” she countered.

“I was _right here._ I could have healed it for you—”

“You just wanted an excuse to touch me.”

He breathed deeply again, nostrils flaring. “I don’t need an excuse.” Furious, he lunged for her again—and this time, she did not try to stop him.

Not when he bit hard enough that it drew blood on her lips, as if to tempt her to use it. She certainly was tempted… but she didn’t.

Not when she crushed several feathers on his coat as she pulled it off him roughly, driven by a desire she couldn’t explain, the broken barbs stabbing into her palms, drawing yet more little droplets of blood that she could use.

Not when he yanked her hair hard enough to hurt, sending a curious shudder down her spine.

Not when she clawed red marks into his back—deliberately, because it gave her pleasure to make him wince _(he deserves it)_ and then retaliate _(I deserve it)_.

He wasn’t watching her left hand. She could have used the blood from the feather barb stabs to instantly sap his strength, to enslave his will, or to fuel any ordinary spell she wished—and he wouldn’t have seen it coming. But she raised her _right_ arm in an arc, just slowly enough to give him more than enough time to grab her wrist.

 _I can stop him,_ she thought—as she stopped fighting entirely.

But she didn’t.

* * *

There wasn’t much to say the next morning. Caitlyn was rather shocked at the extent of red marks on both of them, but she wordlessly gave assent for him to cast his healing spell on her. A part of her wanted to be furious and outraged for what had happened. She had sworn she would never let him touch her in that manner ever again… _and I’ve proven that my word is clearly as genuine as an Orlesian bard’s,_ she thought cynically. And yet, at the same time, much of her urge to hurt, maim, and berate him really had vanished.

The urge would come back, she knew. His actions were too great a betrayal for that not to happen. And he was too strident about blood magic, and she about spirit possession, for _that_ not to be a source of friction many times in the future as well. But maybe… maybe… Caitlyn hated to think it, but maybe this _was_ a better outlet for the rages and frustrations that would inevitably arise.

_If I do stick to this path—and I must; nothing about its being my responsibility changes now—then perhaps this is a better way to handle it. Abusing and berating him didn’t actually dissipate any of my anger for any amount of time. Punching just made me want to punch more._

Silently they packed up their few belongings and headed downstairs to have breakfast before setting out once again. Finally, once they were on the road—or what passed for it in these parts—she acknowledged the events of the previous night.

“I don’t hold ‘last night’ against you,” she said in clipped tones. She stopped and faced him, her gaze hard. “We both know that I let you do it. But this does not mean that things are ‘back to normal’ between us. It can never be normal again, and it’s useless to pretend otherwise. But… that was still a good idea… and I wouldn’t necessarily be averse to….”

“A repeat?”

She scowled; his voice was too smug and jocular. It irked her. “You are a Healer,” she said curtly, “and I am… a self-healer, of a sort. I wouldn’t… turn down competent healing… or refrain from enhancing the healing my way, with a bit of… violence….”

He suppressed a snort of laughter. “If that’s how you need to think of it, works for me.”

She did not reply. He was silent for a while as well, and then he spoke again.

“You said it can never be normal again between us. Is there truly _nothing_ I could do to earn your forgiveness?”

She thought about that. “I don’t know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not new material. I decided to expand the story (see: chapters 3 and 4, which _are_ new), and when my expansion also ended up over 12,000 words long, I decided that that was just too long for single chapters, so I split them up.

**(IV) Three Wishes**

_Dragon 9:39._

“But… where could they be?” Caitlyn asked, not expecting an answer, not really even asking him. She gazed out across the scrubby waste, which was already cold even in early autumn. There had been signs of previous habitation—the scraps of long-cold campfires, roasting spits, and animal bones—but no one had lived here in a while. Had the Dalish been unable to give up their centuries-old traditional ways of nomadism? Or had they been unable to eke out a living on this unproductive, difficult, cold patch of land—land that had been Blighted, in fact, only eight years ago?

Had they come this far, dutifully avoiding the outbreaks of mage-Templar violence and, increasingly, Orlesian noble violence, maintaining uneasy anonymity throughout their travels across the breadth of Nevarra and Orlais, only to find that the Dalish homeland was no more? _That, perhaps, the Dalish themselves—this clan, anyway—are no more?_ Caitlyn thought darkly.

She had heard nothing from anyone. She wondered what they were all doing. Carver, at least, had Commander Stroud and the Grey Wardens, and Caitlyn had not heard anything in all her travels about Grey Warden involvement in the mage-Templar war. In fact, the Wardens had served as something of a refuge for people—mostly mages, but a few Templars too—who wanted no part of the violence.

 _Violence we unleashed,_ she thought.

But she had heard nothing from anyone else. Aveline would be able to do for herself anywhere. She would be fine, and she had Donnic with her. And Fenris…. Caitlyn admitted to herself that she was a little worried that he might have joined the Templar side. However, that would have been too sensational for it not to have been the kind of rumor that would spread like wildfire through elf-hating Orlais, and yet, she had heard nothing of an elven warrior who used to be a “friend of the Champion” fighting on either side. Fenris had his views about magic, which she had undoubtedly carved in stone when she struck down Templars with blood hemorrhage spells, undoing her work of seven years to influence him—but he was not the sort who would purposely seek martyrdom for the cause.

 _No, that’s the one I have walking with me,_ she thought.

A pang of fear shot down her spine at the thought of Merrill. Was her little friend even alive anymore? _If she did not make it out of Kirkwall, she probably isn’t,_ she thought.

 _Varric and Isabela would not have left her to die,_ she reassured herself—but doubts continued to gnaw at her. Merrill hated ships. She might have refused to board. Would Isabela and Varric have forced her?

 _They might have,_ she thought—but she couldn’t be sure, and she had no idea how to contact any of them. For what felt like the thousandth time since she had fought the last battle in Kirkwall, Caitlyn cursed herself for her weakness. She had been the leader of the band of comrades—hadn’t she? They had not all liked each other, but they had all liked _her._ She should have kept them together! It was yet another failure.

* * *

Ferelden was rebuilding Ostagar. The battlefield was scarcely recognizable now, with only the bleak Tower of Ishal a reminder of what had happened. A village of sorts had sprung up, and like any good village, it included… not an inn, exactly, because there were very few travelers in these remote parts, but a sort of mess hall, trading post, and meeting place all at once. In addition to the Fereldan soldiers and their families, there were actually a few Chasind, which pleased Caitlyn. At least _some_ of the ancient inhabitants of this part of the world remained. That combination of renewal and nostalgia left Caitlyn with a sense of cheery optimism that she had not felt in… a long time. Her spirits were boosted immediately, and she boldly decided to go into the building to mingle with the inhabitants and ask _them_ what, if anything, they knew about the Dalish land. These seemed to be good folk. Surely the Dalish had simply decided to go elsewhere because this land was unsuited to them—or it was too close to war-torn Orlais.

No one recognized her—or Anders—this far south of Kirkwall. Lothering was long gone, its soldiers either dead or reestablished elsewhere. As soon as they were seated, enjoying hot bowls of hearty Fereldan-style stew, she asked the person seated beside her about what had happened to the Dalish grant.

The woman, a military officer, frowned. “That was bad business,” she said darkly.

Suddenly, Caitlyn lost her appetite. She swallowed hard. “Bad business? How so? What happened?” The optimism she had felt was vanishing quickly.

“An ugly skirmish with those mages, Templars, and the wild elves!” the woman exclaimed. “Sad but inevitable. No good could have come of it. I know that the King and Queen meant to honor the Hero in doing it, but it was a bad idea from the start.”

“Could you… _explain_ what happened?” Anders urged her.

“Well! There were issues when we moved back here to try to rebuild Ostagar. Ferelden _needs_ a military post here in the south, and it was a mistake to include it in the Dalish grant. No disrespect meant to Their Majesties, of course, but it was a bad boundary. The elves didn’t like us being here, and they gave trouble. But… we were sorting all that out, and the King and Queen too, of course. I think we would’ve resolved it. That wasn’t the really bad part.”

A cold lump settled in Caitlyn’s stomach. She attempted to force her food down, knowing that she needed the nourishment. “What was the really bad part?” she asked, barely recognizing her own voice.

“It started when some elf mages deserted from their army, and tried to take up with the Dalish.”

“Oh, no,” Caitlyn whispered. She had a horrible feeling that she knew already how this tale was going to end. Beside her, Anders gave her a look of alarm, horror, and—dare she say it—guilt.

“The Templars got wind of it, and so did the human mages, and they all tried to take them back and make them fight. The Dalish wouldn’t have that.”

“Oh, Maker,” said Caitlyn.

The woman nodded glumly. “The entire clan was wiped out. It was… bad. Mages summoning demons, Templars cutting down even little elf children… I heard that the few survivors were so upset, they _all_ deserted.”

When she said that, Caitlyn suddenly had awful flashbacks—crippling flashbacks—of that terrible last night in Kirkwall. She had seen mages summoning demons, mages turned to abominations, and, yes, Templars cleaving through defenseless, unharrowed adolescent mages even as they pleaded for their lives.

_Rage. They will pay for that. The girl’s screams for mercy still echo in Caitlyn’s ears as she enters the Gallows. They will pay in blood. They think they see blood magic, well, let it be the last thing they ever see. So much blood. Blood streams from the gaps in the Templars’ armor, from the pores in their exposed skin, pooling at their feet. Blood flows in misty whirls through the air, coalescing upon her, invigorating her._

Caitlyn shut her eyes, trying to block it out.

“Hey,” the woman said gently, nudging her. “I’m sorry. Bad memories?”

Caitlyn opened her eyes. Both Anders and the stranger were gazing at her, pure concern in the stranger’s eyes, a haunted, horribly guilty look in his. A year ago, she would have been smugly delighted to see that look. Now, all such feeling was gone.

“Yes,” she choked. “I was… at Ostagar,” she lied. “War is awful.”

The woman nodded. “That it is.”

Caitlyn somehow managed to finish her supper. She rose from the bench and went to one of the open, unglazed windows in the place. As she gazed about the bleak expanse of land, she supposed that perhaps it was for the best that she had lost contact with Merrill, since she had nothing to offer Merrill after all. No new clan, no new Keeper, no new purpose. No restoration of what Merrill had sacrificed so much to try to preserve.

 _No ritual to free Anders of the demon_. Yet another pleasant, happy fantasy was vanished forever.

That night she burrowed into his coat—and him—for warmth, so she told herself at first, but she knew there was another reason too, as if she could protect him from Vengeance by not letting go. The implication of that hit her. _Protect him. Not others. First him._ It left her with mixed feelings, both longing and guilt. As she fell asleep, she had a bad feeling, a sense of dark foreboding. It turned out to be entirely justified.

* * *

She was at home. Yes, home—the Amell manor in Hightown, her home for so many years. The fine furnishings, the rich food, the comforting presence of Bodahn and Sandal, the dog, the elven servant that she had freed from a life of slavery….

“Caitlyn!”

She turned around, her satin garments swishing fluidly, flattering her form. Her mother was approaching her, beaming. “You’ve done so well to finally restore this home to us all!”

She managed a smile, but it was a weak one. “Thank you, Mother. I did my best. I just hate that my best wasn’t good enough to keep Carver safe.”

Leandra frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, my dear? Carver is fine!”

“Well, yes, he is, thanks to Anders and the Wardens, but….”

“The Wardens?” Carver rounded the staircase and glowered at her. “You’re taking after that dwarf now, exaggerating like that. I was injured, but it wasn’t so bad that your healer couldn’t fix it.”

Caitlyn was confused. Carver _had_ become a Grey Warden during the Deep Roads expedition… it had happened years ago… hadn’t it? And yet, as she gazed around the house, she suddenly wondered if she remembered correctly. This seemed awfully real to her. Maybe she’d just remembered a dream in which Carver had joined the Wardens….

“Such a wonderful young man!” Leandra trilled, and then, as if by magic, she produced Anders from behind her. He looked younger and more peaceful than he ever had before.

“Ugh,” Carver muttered. He made for the door. “Spare me that, please, Mother. I just ate dinner and I don’t want to sick up.”

Caitlyn moved forward curiously. Anders was not wearing the black-feathered coat. It was the one he had worn before that, with light grey feathers. That was interesting. He had not worn that coat since… since he… but strangely, Caitlyn could not remember what he had done at the time that he started wearing the black coat. It was something terrible, wasn’t it? And yet, the person before her couldn’t have done anything so awful. Another false memory from a dream, then.

“Oh, Carver, don’t be so immature,” came a third voice—a voice that Caitlyn had not heard in almost ten years. She turned sharply and found herself facing her little sister, Bethany.

Her heart broke as she realized, at last, what she was actually seeing.

“Show yourself, demon,” she called out, her voice broken, cold, icy—and lethal.

The figure that resembled her mother hissed, and in the next second, it _melted,_ shifting form from a middle-aged, fully clothed human woman to a purple, almost-naked, horned demon—a desire demon.

“It’s all right, my dear,” the demon said, its voice sultry. “If you had not been such a strong and powerful mage, able to see through the illusion, then we would not have been able to offer it to you as _reality.”_

Caitlyn was frozen. She stared at the demon, half-tempted. This vision… this illusion… for it to be _reality…._

“You have suffered so much, poor dear. I want to help you. I can offer you three wishes,” the demon whispered as it moved sinuously. “Your family, alive and well. I can even give you your father too. All of your friends, by your side once more. And Anders, whole and unpossessed.” She gestured to the representation of him, which smiled back at her.

 _Unpossessed._ Caitlyn recalled what she had learned that evening in the waking world. The Dalish clans that had moved to the land set aside for them after the Blight were gone, wiped out, yet more casualties of the mage-Templar war, yet more blood on her hands and his. There was no Keeper who might know the ritual to send someone into the Fade to boot out a possessing spirit. But if there was another way—

 _No. It might work, but this demon would just possess him in place of Vengeance—and I would be possessed too, because this is not the only demon present._ As Caitlyn had that realization, the forms of Carver, Bethany, and Anders twisted to take on demonic form too, albeit lesser ones, obviously following the leader.

“You can’t offer me that,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. “You lie. You _can’t_ bring people back from the dead.”

“I am a Spirit of Desire,” the demon said, smiling. “It is my nature to grant your desires, whatever they may be. You’ll never know _what_ my true powers are unless you let me show you.” The demon gestured around. “You can have this! I can give you this! You just have to do one little thing.”

“Just give you my body,” she snarled. “No. You _cannot_ give me this. You would give me something that _looked_ like this, at best. It wouldn’t really be any of this. It would be a filthy, vile, disrespectful _lie._ You can’t do what you claim.”

The entire tenor of the conversation changed with that. The demon’s face hardened, and with it, the faces of its demon followers. “Oh? Is that your reason for refusing me? But if I _could…_ what then, Caitlyn Hawke? If I _could,_ you would take it, wouldn’t you?”

Caitlyn did not answer. She lifted her staff from her back and cast the most powerful wide-area curse that she knew. As the demons raged and melted away, Caitlyn felt herself falling out of the Fade and back into the world, the bleak, dark, horribly _real_ world that she knew….

* * *

She awoke, flailing on her bedroll, cold sweat and goosebumps all over her body. At once arms enclosed her. She reached for her captor, trying to shove him away.

“Stop it!” he shouted, grabbing her wrists. “Get control of yourself!”

She continued to thrash for another second before realizing that it was Anders. Breathing heavily, she stilled her movements. He seemed to relax, but he did not let go of her wrists. Momentarily she reflected on the fact that, although she was the more powerful mage, he was physically stronger and bigger. In a moment, he had both of her wrists in one of his hands, so that he could cast a cold white light with the other. The inside of the tent was faintly illuminated. He stared at her face, gazing into her eyes intently.

“Yes, it’s you—and _only_ you,” he murmured as if to himself. He released her wrists.

Caitlyn suddenly realized what he had been doing. _He thought—or feared—that I had been possessed. He, of all people—he dares—_

“Yes, it’s just me,” she snarled fiercely. _“I_ know how to say no, unlike some. You have a lot of fucking nerve—”

His nostrils flared, looking almost monstrous in the dim, cold light. “You _are_ a blood mage, and you obviously had an… experience… in the Fade. Set off by what we heard tonight, no doubt.”

In her rage and grief, it sounded for all the world like arrogant condescension, and it rankled badly. “Why, you—”

“Don’t, Caitlyn. Please. It was… you were offered something, weren’t you? Something… happy.”

He hadn’t meant to shame and scold her. It was inherently hypocritical of him to be concerned that she would become possessed, but he _had_ been concerned—legitimately, compassionately concerned. Even if it was hypocrisy, wasn’t that better than not caring? He probably was the only person in this country who cared for her.

“Oh, Maker,” she said, finally breaking, as she burst into tears and he held her—though as she sobbed, she realized that she was not crying for what she had lost. She was crying for what she had never had at all.

* * *

**(V) The Call of Corypheus**

_Dragon 9:41._

The past two years had passed in relative peace and quiet—and most importantly, obscurity. Of course, it had not been _entirely_ quiet. They were too close to the epicenter of the mage-Templar War, and too close to the Orlesian Civil War, for their lives to be entirely quiet. In disguise, with misdirection spells—Anders could confuse non-magical foes somewhat with regular spells; Caitlyn could subtly use blood magic mind control to do it even to mages—they had even taken part in a few skirmishes.

Always, though, it was to defend people who were being attacked unfairly, whether complete bystanders, people who were attempting to surrender, or noncombatant mages—or Templars, Caitlyn insisted, and Anders reluctantly went along with the defense of a wide-eyed Templar recruit barely out of boyhood whom a group of adult mages were ganging up on because of his Templar armor. The horror of what had happened to the Dalish had stuck with Caitlyn, even though they had moved on from Ostagar since then.

The war seemed to be reaching a stalemate. There had been atrocities on both sides, and it seemed that they were just sick of fighting. There were rumors of a Divine Conclave to be held in Haven, allegedly—if King Alistair had it right—the site of the Ashes of Andraste.

“We shouldn’t be anywhere near that,” Caitlyn had said briskly to him when they had first had the rumor confirmed. He agreed, and they moved on, crossing the Frostback Mountains into what had once been the Dales.

He seemed to have discovered how to control Vengeance. Caitlyn wondered if his actions in the war—even if she had had to make him do some of them—were starting to turn the demon back into Justice. His actions lately had not been vengeful. If he didn’t feed the demon, it would not thrive—or, perhaps, it would change form. Whatever was happening, Caitlyn was glad of it. She knew that nothing would wipe the blood off their hands, but her goal was to save as many innocent lives as she had taken in prior years. That had to count for something.

As improbable as it would have seemed at the time, he seemed to be fulfilling his resolution at the Gallows courtyard to do better with his second chance. It began to restore some of Caitlyn’s lost faith in people.

Then the Divine Conclave occurred, and everything went to the Void.

* * *

“He is in my head,” Anders groaned, clutching his head as he curled up on the ground. “He’s _here,_ Caitlyn. Corypheus.”

“How can he be?” she exclaimed, almost crying at the sight before her. After all the progress he had made— _they_ had made—would it all come to nothing? Would an ancient magister-turned-darkspawn whom she had thought she had _killed_ take him away from her now?

“He must have possessed that Grey Warden who was with us,” he said miserably. “Somehow, he can do the same as an Archdemon….”

“An Archdemon?” she said sharply.

“Oh… that is… I mean… oh, fuck it,” he finally said. “It’s a Grey Warden secret. The Archdemon’s soul can jump to a new body when its dragon form is killed. It seems that Corypheus can also do that… just without killing his host and himself.” He stared ahead, scowling, yet defiant at revealing this great secret of the order he had abandoned.

“I… see. You’re certain this is Corypheus?”

“What, I have so many voices in my head that I’m not sure who they are anymore?”

“It’s a possibility,” she muttered, though she regretted it immediately. “No—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Caitlyn,” he said, “you didn’t hear him in your head. If you had, you would never forget it. It’s him, and what he has to say is so… _ugly…_ and also, there’s something else….” He broke off unhappily.

All of a sudden, Caitlyn realized that something was very, very wrong. “What’s the matter?” she asked, frightened.

“Remember what your brother and I said at that prison to explain Warden Larius’s condition? Something called the Calling?”

_Wardens are drawn to the Deep Roads because the Blight sickness is taking over them at last._

“Oh, no!” she cried, reaching for him. “Oh, Maker, no, please no!”

He couldn’t meet her eyes.

She pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and faced him as stoically as she could manage. “How… far along do you think it is?” _How much more time do we have before you, too, are taken away from me?  
_

He could not answer at first. “I don’t know. It came on very suddenly, which seems odd to me… but I didn’t stay in the order long enough to know how it’s supposed to progress. And Justice, too… I don’t know what effect that may have on its progression. The Wardens probably wouldn’t either.”

She gazed up at the omnipresent gash in the sky. _“That._ Do you think _that_ could be making it worse?”

“Who knows?” he said despairingly. “The Blight sickness, Corypheus, Justice, the rift in the sky—who knows what is contributing what?”

She hated even asking him, but she felt that she had to. That was obviously a rift between the real world and the Fade, and he _was_ sharing his body with a denizen of the Fade. “What does… Justice… think of it?”

“Justice is always fighting Corypheus and the Calling,” Anders said in a voice barely above a whisper. He looked frightened all of a sudden. “It’s… difficult. Remember what happened at that prison? When he took me over?”

“Of course I remember that. You’re saying—oh, Maker—”

“Caitlyn. If he takes me over, it _will_ be because Corypheus and the Blight sickness are too strong. If that happens….” He trailed off, steeling himself. His face twisted in disgust at something, presumably what he had not yet said. “You know how to use blood magic enslavement. If that happens, I want you to do it.”

She felt sick. “I could have done that three years ago. You’re different now. That’s unfair of you to ask of me.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But… I don’t want either of them to control me. And”—his voice grew quiet, frightened, and weak again—“I don’t think I can fight off _both_ of them.”

She knew he couldn’t. She had seen it before.

“But you’re stronger,” he said. “Two against two? We might stand a chance. I can control Justice, and you _did_ defeat Corypheus once, even if he cheated after being beaten.” He smiled darkly. “If he is at large again physically, they should send you out to finish the job.”

“If he is, that’s a reason why I _shouldn’t_ be involved in ‘finishing the job,’” she countered. “Besides, the only ‘job’ I meant to ‘finish’ is….” She trailed off unhappily, then steeled herself. “All right. I won’t let them win. If it comes to it… I’ll do as you ask.”

* * *

**(VI) The Maker’s Mercy**

The thunderstorm rumbled and poured, bolts of lightning splitting the sky apart—only momentarily, at least—as hailstones mixed with the rain.

Their tent was soaked through. Even her magical wards repelling water had failed. Swearing, Caitlyn awakened, her clothes damp and uncomfortable. Anders’ feathered coat was even worse. That thing positively reeked now, and she was on the verge of setting it aflame and forcing him to get something else to wear.

“Blasted, accursed, Maker-forsaken weather,” she complained as she emerged from her dream. “As if a resurrected ancient darkspawn and a hole in the sky aren’t bad enough—”

It was at this moment that she noticed that the other side of the tent was empty.

“What the….” She never finished her question. Not hesitating for a moment, she picked up her staff and, gingerly, emerged into the torrential downpour.

 _“Anders!”_ she called, hoping that her voice was carried on the storm. She cast a spell to illuminate the tip of her staff and strode forward, ignoring the elements.

She was not sure how long she wandered through the downpour. At last, in the moment of illumination produced by a bolt of lightning, she observed a shadowy figure hunched over or kneeling, she was not sure which. A large, elongated object appeared to be in the person’s hands—a staff?

“Anders?” she asked, approaching the figure.

A lightning bolt tore apart the sky. A thunderclap almost immediately sounded—but in that moment, the figure leapt to its feet and attacked her.

She screamed and instinctively cast blood hemorrhage on the attacker. It fell away from her, blood mixing with rain, spattering her in red, as the figure collapsed backward into a puddle. 

In the back of her mind, she knew it was foolish. There were demons on the loose even after the rift in the sky had closed up, and it seemed that the red lyrium that had destroyed Bartrand Tethras and then Knight-Commander Meredith had spread, and that Corypheus had recruited the survivors of the mage-Templar war to his “cause”—or, more likely, threatened them into submission. Logically, Caitlyn knew that her attacker was more likely to be one of his forces. And yet, because the consequences of being wrong were so ghastly, she leaned over the fallen form to see if her horrible, dark suspicion was correct.

A pair of very familiar brown eyes greeted her.

Anders drew backward, still bleeding but oblivious to that fact. “I _didn’t!_ Oh, no—I _didn’t!_ Corypheus—but no, it doesn’t—are you—” He tried to get to his feet but collapsed into the water again as he continued to bleed out.

Caitlyn Hawke, battlemage and maleficar, had never learned healing. But she knew how to steal life from one person and transfer it to another through blood. Until now, she had always taken from others, but the principle was the same.

She drew the small blade that she always kept with her, cut her hand open, and cast the spell in reverse, sacrificing of her own life force to heal him.

The wounds sealed, and he stopped bleeding. He breathed heavily, then faced her. “Caitlyn, I didn’t mean to—Corypheus—he was talking in my head, and I heard his voice… you felt like a Templar. When he’s… speaking to me… through the taint, he’s a blood mage, and so I can _feel_ your life force. You have the constitution of a Templar.”

 _Of course I do. I have acclimated to using my own life’s blood to fuel magic for years._ She did not even trouble to heal her own cut. She pulled him close, her blood mingling in his hair along with the rainwater. “I understand. It’s all right. You’re going to be fine.”

He tensed suddenly, not responding. Alarm shot through her body.

He threw her backward, eyes bluish-purple, as Justice—or Vengeance—seized control. Caitlyn scrambled for her staff, well aware that her reserves were weaker from the spells she had just cast—

His hands were around her throat, squeezing. “You tried to kill me,” said the voice of Vengeance.

She clawed at his fingers with her own. “No,” she croaked. “I didn’t—know—it—was you.”

He squeezed harder. Her air flow almost completely cut off. _“Stop,”_ she gasped, tearing skin, trying as hard as she could to pry his grip loose.

“You tried to kill me, blood mage. I always take revenge when I am… wronged.”

Something popped in her throat. Pain shot from the spot, filling every inch of her. She closed her eyes. _Blood mage._ Her hand was still bleeding.

He was thrown back with powerful force. Her throat ached, but she ignored that as she cast a powerful hex to trap him in place. Keeping the spell focused on his body, she towered over him. His eyes gleamed purplish-blue, signifying control by the demon Vengeance—

The unearthly light faded, and the eyes of the person before her turned golden brown again. Anders scrambled back against the barrier of the spell, horrified at what he had almost done.

Caitlyn could not maintain it any longer. She released him to heal her own injuries, not even looking as he ran away from her into the stormy night. She could tell that he was crying something out, but the sounds of rain, wind, hail, and thunder masked his exact words.

As soon as she had recovered, she took off after him, following the sound of the indecipherable cries.

At last she came upon him. He was kneeling on the ground, arms raised in supplication.

“Are you there? Is _anyone_ there? Take me if you are!”

She froze in her tracks.

“Cut me down _now!_ This is a storm, isn’t it? _Strike me!_ I tried… to kill… _her.”_

He was beseeching the Maker to send a lightning bolt to kill him.

_“Do you hear me? If you exist, prove it now!”_

Caitlyn was utterly horrified. She gazed upon him, not sure what to do.

The storm raged on, nothing falling on him but rain and small hailstones.

He had been silent for a minute, but then he spoke again. His words were different this time.

“Elder One… Corypheus… _you_ do it, then. You think you are a god, _you_ do it and I’ll agree!”

That was it. She had heard enough—no, _more_ than enough. Caitlyn raised her staff, summoned all her life reserves, and cast the blood enslavement spell on him. The spell that she had been unable to cast when she hated him, when she hurled abuse at him on an hourly basis, she now _had_ to cast because otherwise interlopers were going to take over his mind and steal him from her. She had to do it, and she hated it.

He went limp, then fell to the ground, his pleas to the heavens silenced.

* * *

She covered him with the blanket, trying to keep the tears from falling. He was deep in a magical sleep and throroughly under her control for as long as she wished it. She had even cut him to take a sample of blood. He had a phylactery again—but she could do ever so much more with it than the mundane Templars could.

 _I’m sorry,_ she thought. _I’m so sorry. I failed you. I thought you had won this battle. I was wrong, per fucking usual._

Her foray into his mind—what a “party” _that_ was, sharing the space not only with Anders himself, but also a half-spirit half-demon and the impersonal voice of a tainted ancient magister who poured poison into the minds of all the Grey Wardens—had at least revealed a few things to her. The “Calling” that Anders had believed he was experiencing was not real; it was a construct of Corypheus. That was useful information, and she intended to contact the organization that served as “central command” against the resurrected Corypheus—the Inquisition, led by the ex-Carta dwarf Ingrid Cadash—with what she had learned from her magical experience.

She just hoped that the forces of this Inquisition could do what she had been unable to do, and save him.

* * *

Perhaps someone had heard Anders’ pleas in the storm after all: The Grey Warden contact had been a godsend. Carver was safe, far away from the malignant influence of Corypheus that had almost destroyed Anders, and when she reached Crestwood to meet up with him, she would get to see none other than _Varric_ again! If she had to pick only one of her friends from the Kirkwall years to see again, it would have been Varric. He would have news of everyone else, after all.

Anders remained under her magical control, his sleep not involving the Fade at all due to her use of heavy artificial sleep spells, and his waking moments always subject to her blood magic. She supposed that she _could_ have released him from the spell, but she did not trust him—and she was not willing to gamble with his life. It was quite possible that she really wouldn’t have any choice but to kill him if she released him and one of the… entities… vying for control of him won the battle. She wasn’t willing to risk that. The Inquisition could presumably defeat Corypheus for good. Once he was gone, then it would be back to the status quo, the perennial battle with Justice/Vengeance. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but it _was_ something that she knew and understood. She just needed to keep him safe until that time should come.

She checked her pack to make sure she had everything she needed for the trip to Crestwood. He would be going with her, but he would not be part of… whatever it was that the Warden wanted her to do. Caitlyn wondered idly what it was.

* * *

**(VII) Absolution**

“So, you and the Inquisitor…?”

Varric became defensive. “Mind your own business, Hawke.”

She smirked. For the first time in years, it felt like old times again, the good old days when he teased her about flirting with all of her companions, about her relationship with Anders—except now the tables were turned with a vengeance.

 _Ugh. No. They aren’t_ , she thought with a grimace. _Not that._

“What about _Bianca?”_ she teased him mercilessly. “I thought your heart belonged to her forever.”

He glared. “Don’t ask, Hawke. Just… don’t.”

She had always had a jocular relationship with Varric, but this was different. He… really _didn’t_ want to talk about whatever had come between him and his longtime lover, she realized.

“Well,” she said diplomatically, “it’s apparent to me that you and Inquisitor Cadash are interested in each other. I wish the best to both of you. Truly, I do.” She suddenly moved forward to give him a hug. “You were always a great friend, Varric—the first friend I met in Kirkwall, and the only one who never hurt me. You deserve this.”

That seemed to mollify him. “Thank you, Hawke,” he said gruffly but sincerely. He paused for a moment. “What about… how is… Anders?”

She noticed that he did not call Anders “Blondie” anymore. She shook her head.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” the dwarf said, though he scowled as he uttered the words.

She realized that he believed Anders was dead. “Oh, no,” she said at once. “Not that. But… with Corypheus and Justice bothering him, he’s… needed help. _Specialized_ help… from me… if you take my meaning.”

“I… do.”

She sighed. “I hope that Lady Cadash can get rid of Corypheus as quickly as possible.”

“Don’t we all, Hawke. I just hope that she manages to do it permanently.”

* * *

Caitlyn Hawke emerged from the Fade shattered, broken, and horribly guilty, guilty beyond repentance or absolution.

Yet _another_ person had died for her. Would her death toll ever stop accumulating? Would blood ever stop dripping from her hands?

 _I suppose it will end with my death,_ she thought miserably. _Or… will it?_

She had been appalled at Anders’… demonstration… in the thunderstorm that night, challenging the Maker to prove His existence by sending a bolt of lightning killing him for what he had done—and then, in the absence of any response, beseeching Corypheus to do it. However, she believed that she understood it now. Why should the Warden have died instead of her? What had _he_ done to deserve this fate? She was the one who had the blood of thousands on her hands. She was the one who had arrogantly taken down her father’s blood wards holding Corypheus back, unleashing him, then failing to kill him permanently—letting him go free, in her unmitigated arrogance that she had defeated him when she saw his body collapse to the ground. It should have been her.

But, once again, it wasn’t.

The Hero of Ferelden had given her life for Thedas. Her Grey Warden ally had given his.

They were heroes. She wasn’t. She was not even an antihero. There were times, in fact, when she wondered if she were the villain. If Corypheus hadn’t made his appearance, she would have presumed that she was.

They were dead, and she was alive.

There was no Justice in this world. Not even the thing sharing Anders’ body was that anymore.

* * *

_Dragon 9:42._

“I promised him that I would do this,” she said. “It’s the least I can do to… make up for everything.”

Anders gazed at her. “You’re going to Weisshaupt?”

“Yes, Weisshaupt. And _you_ are going along, Grey Warden.”

He had been much better since Inquisitor Cadash had finally defeated Corypheus, banishing _that_ voice from his head, at least. The voice of Justice remained, but Anders had managed to keep it in check. It seemed to be mollified by the defeat of Corypheus and the establishment of a new, self-governing College of Magi. Some measure of the old times had returned.

But Caitlyn knew that justice, the _idea,_ not the Fade spirit, still had to be served. There was still much blood on her hands, much wrong to set right. She had an opportunity to continue that with her promise. It was her duty to do what she could—and, quite frankly, it was his duty too.

“Well… who am I to say no to you?” he finally said. “Weisshaupt it is.”

“If this is truly our last fight, let it be one to be remembered,” she said solemnly. She reached for his arm. He took it.

His coat bore a mantle of griffon feathers in palest grey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t intending to write more for this fic, but since I wrote the preceding, I have almost become a shipper… in fact, though there’s still a lot of drama, angst, and snarling, most of this new material is _really shippy_ compared to part 1… and I want to resolve the cliffhanger.
> 
> So, naturally, I don’t actually do it. ;-) This will include two possible endings, to be posted with chapter 4 in a day or two.

**(VIII) Plans Hatched**

“Varric told me where to find Carver,” Caitlyn remarked, poring over a map with a thoughtful crease on her forehead. “He should be part of this. He _is_ a Warden, after all… and Varric hinted that the same one we met in the Deep Roads that day, Jean-Marc Stroud, has mustered another group of disaffected Wardens who didn’t approve of the collusion with Corypheus.”

Anders scowled, which she noticed. She frowned at him disapprovingly. “Stroud could have arrested you that day, you know.”

“The world might’ve been better off if he had,” Anders muttered.

That was too true for argument, so Caitlyn did not comment on it. Instead she said, “We know next to nothing about Weisshaupt—its defenses, the numbers of Wardens who will be there, what to do—we must have a sizable army and the more senior Grey Warden knowledge we can acquire, the better. That will take time.”

“You can rest assured it’s magically defended,” he said. “They’re neighbors with Tevinter and are very secretive.”

“I assumed no less. It will be tough, and we have to have every hand that we can get.”

* * *

What Varric’s sources and methods might be, Caitlyn could not begin to speculate—though she expected that his relationship with the Inquisitor had significantly enhanced what he’d had in Kirkwall years ago—but he promised her that he would see her letter to her brother quickly, and he certainly did. Carver, his commander, and many like-minded Wardens from the Free Marches were encamped in no other than the prison in the Vimmark Mountains that had once imprisoned Corypheus.

“Why in the Maker’s name would they want to go _there?”_ she wondered aloud at the reply letter in her hands.

Anders peered over her shoulder. “Once it’s magically secured, it’s virtually impregnable.” He scowled. “Though I’m sure they used blood magic to do it.”

Caitlyn shrugged indifferently.

“Right. Like father, like daughter.”

She glared at him. _“If_ these Wardens used blood magic to secure it this time, it involves no ‘blood of the Hawke’ anymore. It’s nothing to me. So long as they let us in, I don’t care.”

“In _and out,”_ Anders muttered darkly.

“This is my brother we’re talking about, and a loyal Grey Warden commander. They fought with us that night in Kirkwall and that wasn’t even their own cause. They want to march on Weisshaupt, according to Varric. Stroud actually _visited_ Weisshaupt, so he knows a great deal of what is going on with the First Warden. He went there to make his report after the… event… at Adamant Fortress….” She broke off, her voice pained and cracking as a lump formed in her throat. She cleared her throat roughly to continue, “Don’t spoil it by being petty.”

He looked genuinely chastened. “You never told me very much about that.”

“You were blood-enthralled,” she said bluntly, trying to protect herself from crying with deliberate hardness. “And after Cadash and her people defeated Corypheus, I just… didn’t want to discuss it. But,” she said, sighing heavily, “it was bad. I had a bad feeling about it when Loghain decided to enter the Fade with the Inquisitor and her companions… he had the grimmest look on his face that I have ever seen… and when we had to make a choice of who should stay behind to distract this monstrous demon, I just… knew. I think he felt bad that Warden Mahariel sacrificed herself to end the Blight and so he wouldn’t let another young woman die in his place. But for whatever reason, he thought I deserved to survive.”

Anders was quiet. “I’m sorry that you experienced that, but I’m glad it wasn’t you left behind in the Fade to die.” Impulsively, he pulled her close and cradled her.

She muffled a sob. He meant well, she knew, but he hadn’t been there, and he couldn’t understand. He also was not a very empathetic person, which struck her as peculiar for a healer… but then, perhaps his motive was more about feeling good about himself for doing it. It probably was, just as his comment just now was surely at least partially tinged by the selfish desire not to lose her. As she processed these disconcerting thoughts, she realized that the griffon feathers on his coat were both soft and prickly, sticking her cheeks. There was always pain with this, no matter what.

She drew away after what felt like an appropriate time and faced him. “I promised him I would make a report to Weisshaupt, but Varric didn’t like the way I looked after emerging from the Fade. He wouldn’t even hear of it once I explained in detail what I’d had to do to you to keep you safe from Corypheus and Justice warring for your mind. After that, the Inquisition contacted Stroud, and he did it. I have to honor my promise to Loghain somehow.”

“I’m surprised that the dwarf cared. I presumed he was done with me. The last I saw of him, in Kirkwall, he was fondling that crossbow of his like he wanted to turn me into a pincushion—which he most likely did.” Anders scowled as he remembered.

Caitlyn shook her head, remembering that night. Varric _had_ offered to kill him for her. Still…. “Maker, you can be a shit sometimes,” she said, exasperated. “Let it go—especially when you brought something upon yourself by your own choices.”

He looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue, but his face changed in a split second. He nodded quickly and rose to his feet. “Right, then. Let’s go find your little brother in my favorite place in all Thedas.”

“I thought that was the Templar barracks,” she teased, finding brief joy in joking with him, though it was now tinged permanently with sadness and pain.

“Oh, right, that’s true.”

“And didn’t I hear you say, when we went to the fortress, that it wasn’t that bad?”

“That was probably Corypheus talking.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

She gasped, shocked that he would joke about that—and, if she were honest with herself, thrilled that he could do it instead of being morose and angsty. Well aware of her reaction and pleased with himself for provoking it, he strode leisurely past her. His very body language conveyed cockiness at finally having surprised her in a good way. It was too much. She rose to her feet and struck the end of her staff on the ground, halting him in his tracks with a force spell.

He followed her rapid progress as she stormed toward him, very pleased indeed.

* * *

“Right here?”

“Right here.”

He gazed up at the starry sky and the ever-present scar from the rift. “In the open like this?”

She hovered over him, eyes fierce. “Is there a problem?” Her eyebrows rose on her forehead as she glared at him, sending the message that there had better not be a problem.

“No problem,” he said, breaking into a grin. “I’m just warning you, though, the lightning thing—it’s rather showy. If anyone _is_ around….”

The lightning thing. He could shoot bolts directly from his hands, no need of a staff, and he could make sure that they were startling without being dangerous. Caitlyn felt her face burning hot as she recalled that particular… magical talent… of his. It had been so long since he’d done it to her. The last time had been in Kirkwall….

“After all that has happened, I doubt anyone here thinks twice about mysterious flashes of light anymore,” she said. She pushed him to the ground and breathed heavily, heatedly, as she felt his arms enclose her waist.

* * *

**(IX) Not So Junior**

“I _hate_ this place,” Caitlyn muttered as they made their way inside the fortress, guarded by a silent Grey Warden who was with Stroud’s group. The Warden peered at her, disapproval in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Anders was nervous. His tainted blood called out to these Wardens, and theirs to his, and he was unsure if they knew specifically that he was the abomination whose “familiar spirit” had committed a massacre in Ferelden a decade ago when an ex-Templar Warden had turned him over to his former comrades-in-bucket-helmets. If they did, surely they would not slay him on the spot in front of Caitlyn Hawke and her brother, he tried to reassure himself. They certainly knew that he was the mage who had started the mage-Templar war, the companion of the Champion, and yet here he stood….

The Warden guard brought them into the center of the fortress, in a collection of cells where they had worked out a ridiculous puzzle at the behest of Warden Janeka. Anders recalled that he had been furious with Caitlyn for helping the woman, who had believed that Corypheus should be set loose… but it was a ruse because she had really just wanted to avoid killing the Wardens who were with Janeka and gambled—correctly—that they would not stand by her. Caitlyn was better at that sort of thing than he was, he grudgingly admitted to himself. When he saw the circle of faces, including Stroud’s and Carver’s, he was relieved to see that no one bore him unusual hostility.

“Champion,” Stroud said. He turned to Anders in cold acknowledgment. “And _Warden_ Anders,” he said, emphasizing the title, as the latter winced despite himself. Were they going to drag him back into this creepy order again? “Welcome. We have much to discuss.”

Caitlyn nodded and returned Stroud’s greeting, but she only had eyes for her brother, who was sitting at Stroud’s right hand.

Carver bear-hugged his sister. As they awkwardly patted each other on the back, neither of them missed the fact that it looked to anyone as if Carver were the elder sibling. Despite the emotional traumas that Caitlyn had undergone over the past few years, Carver had been subjected to heavy physical toils, and it had put years on him that were not rightfully his.

The siblings drew away and regarded each other. “I heard about Adamant,” Carver said abruptly. “I’m sorry.”

She sighed and cast her gaze down. “Adamant is the reason I am here,” she finally said. “We are here. _We,”_ she corrected herself.

Carver eyed Anders. “No privacy in these cells, as you may have noticed. Keep off her.”

“No worries, _Warden_. She is a great deal more likely to be on _me,”_ he quipped.

Caitlyn groaned in embarrassment and surreptitiously zapped him with a spark, making him jump slightly and raise his eyebrows at her.

Carver grunted in disgust. “Feathered miscreant,” he seethed.

“I don’t need your permission for anything I may do, _little_ brother,” Caitlyn said with a roll of her eyes.

“I just don’t want to see or hear it,” he explained with a death glare at Anders. “I will tolerate him because he is a Grey Warden, and even if he’s only here because he likes you, he _will_ do his duty while he marches with his brother Wardens.”

“And so it begins,” Anders muttered. It appeared that he really was going to be strong-armed into active duty with the Grey Wardens again.

“He’s right,” Caitlyn said repressively to him. “You will.”

Anders groaned. Beside her, Carver smirked. “I’m glad to see you, Sis,” he finally said.

“And I’m glad to see you.”

“Yes,” Stroud said firmly, “family reunions are very important… but we also have _business_ at hand.” He picked up a sheaf of documents. “I have the names of Wardens across Thedas who support us.”

“I heard at Adamant that there were very few who weren’t corrupted.”

“That’s… not entirely accurate. Some of them abandoned the order during the war against the Elder One; others were forced against their will to do things that they hated. Desertion is a crime”—he stared at Anders pointedly—“but there were mitigating circumstances. They believed that the order was hopelessly corrupt and that their oaths had been to a Grey Warden order that no longer existed. They are happy to fight beside us now. We always try to temper justice with mercy.”

Caitlyn and Anders exchanged a shocked look. Stroud could not possibly have known the meaning, the deep significance, that those two words had to the pair of them. It almost seemed like fate that he would say them.

* * *

Stroud’s unit had a large stock of supplies in the fortress, and they settled in to plan a strategy and contact the pertinent people. Caitlyn made sure to write to Varric again. He was now Viscount of Kirkwall, Inquisitor Cadash by his side—at least, when she wasn’t off cleaning up the last skirmishes and resolving the last unresolved issues from the war. She approved of the appointment; it seemed to her that perhaps someone who was not a human could finally make a fresh start for the troubled city. His ties to her did not make it a _wholly_ fresh start—it was a clear declaration of allegiance to the controversial Champion on the Inquisition’s part—but over the course of her stay at the Warden fortress, she learned some startling things that Varric had not gotten around to telling her at Adamant.

“Sebastian tried to _attack_ Kirkwall! Aveline and her family went back, and he wanted to take revenge on anyone who had ever been a companion of yours—and mine. He tried to take advantage of everyone’s focus on the war against Corypheus to seize a city!” she exclaimed upon reading one of Cadash’s letters. “I can’t believe it!”

“I can,” Anders said cynically. “That’s exactly what he threatened to do. What came of it? Is the bastard dead?”

She glared at him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

Anders frowned. “Why are you defending him? Vengefully attacking a city because of an act of mercy by a person who _doesn’t even live there_ is worse than what I did.”

She sighed. When he put it that way, she couldn’t argue with him, and she had never got on with Sebastian. Still… “He _was_ a companion, Anders. And no, he’s not dead. _Cullen_ sent help to Aveline and they kicked him back to Starkhaven.”

That got a reaction. “The Templar? _He_ did it? And Aveline was… I don’t… I don’t even know what to think of that,” he admitted.

“He’s not a Templar anymore. He was the Commander of the Inquisition’s army. He’s even quit lyrium, according to Cadash.”

“Good,” Anders said briefly. “I suppose… he did let us pass that night.” He seemed to be wrestling with a new idea, the idea that someone who had been a Templar might not be a horrible person out to destroy all mages. He had defended the occasional Templar in the mage-Templar war, but that had largely been because she had ordered him to do it. This was different.

As he considered this, she regarded him with a strange tenderness that she had not felt to this degree in a while. She had felt _pity_ while he was being tormented by Corypheus and Justice was trying, with unfortunate results, to fight the darkspawn magister’s malign influence, but pity was not tenderness….

“I wonder if… any of the old crowd would like to join us,” he finally said. “Aveline has a family now, you say?”

“According to this, she and Donnic have a small child, yes. But I don’t think that would stop her if she wanted to fight,” she added with a smile. “As for the others… Fenris is hunting slavers in Tevinter. Isabela is alternating between sailing and, I think, joining him. They’ve always had something, I was sure of it….”

“They have,” he said with distaste. “What about Merrill?”

Caitlyn’s face suddenly grew shadowed. “I don’t know. I’m worried for her.”

Carver suddenly turned the corner, intruding on their conversation. There was indeed no privacy in these cells, Caitlyn noted. “Merrill? She’s fine. Don’t worry about her,” he said.

Suspicion instantly flooded her. “How do you know? Are you in contact with her?”

Carver flushed pink. “I, uh….”

For once, Anders got it before Hawke did. He gaped at Carver. “You and _Merrill?_ Are you serious? How could I not have—Maker—I don’t know whether to be evilly delighted or revolted by that.”

“Then I have the advantage over you, because I’m definitely revolted by you and my sister. _But…_ yes,” he said, grinning as Anders glowered, “Merrill and I. We write, mostly, and she’s with Fenris and Isabela, but I always look forward to seeing her.”

“I know about Grey Warden behavior,” Anders warned. “You had better not cheat on her, _or else.”_

“I _don’t,_ prick. And I think we’ve all seen enough of your ‘or elses.’”

“I’m glad she’s safe,” Caitlyn interceded. “I didn’t think we would ever get together again as a group….”

“It may not happen,” Carver cautioned her. “It all depends on whether they want to join when we reach the north. And being sentimental is all very well, but what we need most is a big Warden army.”

“I can’t argue with that,” she conceded. “I just hope that there’s not too much of a fight about who _leads_ this army.” She moved closer to her brother. “The First Warden is corrupt, is he not?”

Carver nodded. “It started at the top.”

“Is Stroud after that position? Just between us? And Anders,” she added, as he was listening in.

“And Justice,” Carver sniped. “Well… as for your question… I don’t know.” He looked cagey.

“You suspect he is, though,” Anders said perceptively.

Carver scowled. “He is a good leader. Why shouldn’t he be, if he wants it? And sister,” he said, suddenly harsh, “I didn’t miss what you just said about ‘fights about who leads this army.’ Are you trying to upstage me again?”

She drew back as if slapped. “I am not doing anything of the sort!” However, as soon as the words left her mouth, she questioned their truthfulness. She _had_ been very eager to take this over… to lead the Wardens, even though she was not a Warden herself… and Carver _was_ one. Many of his complaints to this effect over the years had been simple immaturity and pettiness, but… could he be right about some of them? _Was_ she a glory hound?

“The Wardens want to follow a Warden when fighting for the order,” Carver said.

Anders spoke up. “Your sister is a powerful symbol. She should be a leader.”

Caitlyn took a step back, holding up her hands for peace. “I didn’t mean anything by the remark, I swear. Everything will work itself out. If the Wardens want to follow Stroud, then that’s what will happen. I _can’t_ make people follow me who don’t want to.”

“But you do want it,” Carver said shrewdly. He eyed her one last time before leaving the cell block.

Anders put an arm around her shoulder. “Ignore him,” he said. “He’s just being himself. Of course you will be at the head of this army, right beside Stroud, whatever _Junior_ thinks.”

“He has become Stroud’s right-hand man. He will be there too if that happens.”

“Everyone knows who the Champion of Kirkwall is. Whether he likes it or not, _he_ is known for being your brother. You are the best of your line.” His face was hard, his eyes glaring, an angry scowl on his face at the idea that another might think himself equal to her.

“This isn’t helping,” she finally said. “We have to fight together—or we’ll all fall together.”

That hard sneer on his face remained for another moment before vanishing. He nodded. “You’re right.”

* * *

Caitlyn felt odd as she went to bed that night, curled up on an uncomfortable bedroll beside Anders in what had once been a prisoner’s cell.

For one thing, the bars provided a perfect view to anyone walking by. Carver was right that there was no privacy. Even in her tent, she’d at least been concealed from wandering eyes. But in this place, there was no chance of that—no chance of the blessed relief of intimacy. She’d become used to it again, and it was not even usually tinged with rage and vengeance now. Time had passed since that dark night in Kirkwall, and Anders really had tried to do better during the mage-Templar war, before Corypheus had arisen again and attacked his mind. However, there was too great a risk of being seen in this place. It was an urge that couldn’t be sated in here.

There was something else, something strange that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. A health problem? Caitlyn desperately hoped that the Wardens had cleaned this place up and that she hadn’t contracted the taint. _Though I suppose if I have, at least I would have that in common with him and with Carver… if I survive the Joining ritual._ That dark thought was like a stone dropping down her gut. Anders had betrayed pretty much all of the Grey Warden secrets to her: the terrible cost of slaying an Archdemon, the Calling, the infertility, the nature of the Joining…. _If that’s what it is, I really might die,_ she thought, chilled suddenly. She reflected on the fact that a master healer was right beside her, who would surely be able to identify the issue….

_I’ll ask him to check me in the morning,_ she resolved. _I need sleep tonight. If it is the Blight sickness, it’s very slow… I’ll be fine waiting a few hours… and this doesn’t really feel like how I imagined that would, anyway. But what could it be? Could I really just be… ill?_ It seemed strangely ordinary just to be unwell.

She closed her eyes and nestled against him, determined to get some sleep. The Fade did not torment her, strangely.

The shocking diagnosis that Anders gave her the next morning did.

* * *

**(X) Catastrophe and Resolution**

“I don’t understand how this can be,” Caitlyn said, stunned. “Are you _certain_ you did that spell correctly?”

“Positive. I’ll even do it again.” He picked up his staff and cast a diagnostic spell at her. The magic light gleamed vividly blue.

She closed her eyes. He wouldn’t make a spellcasting mistake twice, certainly not in his specialization. It was true. “This is unreal. I am thirty-five years old—”

“Which is not even close to being ‘too old,’” Anders said, beaming.

Caitlyn was not happy at all, and his manifest joy irritated her. “You told me once that Grey Wardens are practically infertile and that the only time they really have a chance to have children is _very_ soon after they Join, because the corruption increases with time. You have been one for a decade.”

He gazed ahead. “Justice,” he finally said. “I’ve been feeling for some time—I _do_ carry the taint; there’s no cure—that we know of—but I think Justice has been mitigating the worst effects of it. I’ve felt it. The infertility must be one such effect… and it would explain, too, why _now_ as opposed to any time over the past eight years. Since Corypheus fell, he has focused his power on the darkspawn corruption within me instead of… other things.”

Caitlyn took that in. “So,” said sarcastically, “this is actually Justice’s child, in a way. Delightful.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, appalled. “This is a good thing. Don’t mock it.”

“It’s also a hassle,” she protested. “We are gathering Grey Wardens and allies from across Thedas to march on Weisshaupt. That will take months, and there is going to be a battle, presumably. How can I lead an army in battle if I’m massively pregnant—or, worse, a new mother?”

He frowned, disturbed that she was implying she put this Grey Warden mission first, ahead of their child. “You can’t. I guess the subject we were discussing last night has been resolved. And it’s better if you come to terms with that now.” He was surprised at how harsh his voice sounded, but he did not regret his tone.

Anger shot through her like a lightning bolt. “That is very easy for you to say,” she said hotly. “You’ll never be kept from doing anything because of _this_ particular issue. You’ll never understand!”

“No,” he agreed, “I won’t. It _is_ easy for me to say. But Maker, you don’t have to do _everything._ You’re not even a Warden! Let Wardens lead this fight. Maybe your brother is right about that. Rally, by all means—gather the allies—but let Wardens do the fighting when that time comes. Let your brother. Let _me.”_

For a moment she wavered. His words made sense. The Wardens should fight for their own order, at least once she was no longer needed as a figurehead, and if one believed in signs and portents, this pregnancy could be seen as a sign that she was not meant to fight at Weisshaupt or wherever the battle took place.

But then something else rose up in her: her independence. “I planned to march on Weisshaupt to mitigate the evil I’ve caused, not be selfish and think only of my own future domestic comfort, and the plain truth is, this is a bad time for this to happen,” she said, her words hard. “In the Fereldan army—Aveline told me about it—women would take a potion to… take care of it… if it happened. You’re a healer—”

He shoved her away from him, eyes blazing, though fortunately not with the presence of Justice. _“I will not!”_ he shouted. “This is _our child_ and there’s _nothing_ wrong! How could you ask me to make that?” He turned aside for a moment, breathing heavily, before whirling around again to face her. This time, signs of white-blue light _were_ present, though he was still holding the spirit in check. “I was happy about this,” he said between clenched teeth. “It is something I never thought I would experience… and now it _did_ happen, but all you can think of is how troublesome it is for your plans to lead a fight—which you _don’t have to do._ A bad time?” he mocked. “When would be a good time? I might _die_ in this campaign. This might be your only chance!” He glowered furiously at her. “You might as well _have_ stuck a blade in me that day in Kirkwall, because every word you’re saying is a dagger.”

“Oh, what a lot of melodrama,” she scoffed. He always did have a flair for the dramatic, but this was flamboyantly so—or at least it seemed that way right now, in her anger and despair. She was a Champion. She meant to _fight._ She had fought for the past twelve years. She was a battlemage, a blood mage, arguably an archmage—she couldn’t just sit out a fight because of something like this!

“Keep stabbing, then. This makes me sick. No figure of speech. I feel queasy.” He turned and began to walk away, but stopped before he had left the room. He turned around again to face her, his face drawn. “If you’re determined on this, I can’t stop you from getting that potion. It’s your body. But I _don’t_ have to stay with you, and if you do this, we are finished.”

She gaped at him as he walked away, leaving her in the cell alone.

* * *

She brooded all day, missing two meals before Carver finally noticed and decided to check on her. He loomed outside the cell where she sat at a makeshift desk someone had shoved into a corner, poring over her letters and her diary.

“Sis,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

She turned around. “Anders didn’t tell you?”

“He won’t say anything. Says it’s your business and if I ‘want to risk your wrath’ then I’m welcome to ask you myself, but _he_ doesn’t want you to hemorrhage him on the floor for divulging anything. I figure it’s bad. Did you have a fight?”

His bluntness, bordering on rudeness, was somehow exactly what she wanted to hear. Mild, solicitous concern would have irked her. “Yes,” she replied, “we had a fight. I’m….” She broke off, suddenly unable to even say it. She sighed deeply and placed a hand over her lower belly.

Carver understood the situation from her gesture. His eyes widened in surprise. “Another Hawke after all,” he murmured. “Why did you fight over that? Does he think it isn’t his because of the Warden corruption? If that’s it, I’ll punch him in the face.”

She glared at him. “That wasn’t helpful, Carver. He trusts me. He knows how it happened.”

He looked mulish. “Well, then, why did you fight—and how _did_ it happen, anyway….”

“He thinks that Justice is successfully fighting the worst effects of the taint, including that one. We fought because he wants it and I… think it’s really, really terrible timing.” She quickly decided not to tell him her idea about taking a potion to terminate it, since he had already deemed it “another Hawke.”

“Well… that’s true. Does feather-brain not understand the difficulties that will pose? Some healer.”

“Oh, he does. He just thinks I should cede….” She trailed off uneasily. Carver wouldn’t like to hear her actual concern—but she noticed that his eyebrows had drawn together as he probably finished her sentence in his mind anyway. She plunged ahead. “I thought I would be in a combat role in this offensive, not just a symbol. This will make it very difficult to be an effective fighter.”

Carver sat down on a spare chair and stared ahead. “Maybe you shouldn’t fight so much in this one. No, really,” he said as she glowered at him. “I tried to tell you that the Wardens will want to follow a Warden anyway. We’ve all followed Stroud ever since Corypheus returned and got at the others. You don’t have to be a commander of the Warden army. You don’t even have to be in every battle.”

“You sound like _him.”_

“If that’s the argument he made, then… I never thought I would utter these words… but he’s right. You don’t have to try to save everyone.”

“Save everyone!” she exclaimed. “Carver—I have the blood of thousands of people on my hands! This isn’t about ‘saving people’ for my own vanity, or to be a hero. I’ll never be a hero. I just want to… wipe the debt out of my account book.”

“Thousands of people? You mean all those thugs, murderers, slavers, and raiders that we fought in Kirkwall? Or the Templars who cut down children, or mages who summoned demons? This bothers you?”

“I mean that my actions—or _in_ action—allowed the war between mages and Templars to occur, and _I_ unleashed Corypheus on the world.”

“You didn’t cause those wars!” he exclaimed. “And as for Corypheus, the wards were weakening! That’s how those crazy dwarves heard him! He was inevitably going to escape.”

“The blood of our father was binding him until I broke the wards.”

“Some mad cultist would have captured one of us and used our blood to free him,” Carver said. “They were already trying that. It _wasn’t your fault._ You don’t have to sacrifice this—this future—to make up for something you didn’t even do. I’m a Grey Warden, Cait. I will always be fighting. But you don’t have to. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

She cast her gaze down. “I… wasn’t expecting I would have a ‘rest of my life.’ I thought….”

“You meant to die.”

“It seems just.”

“Maker!” he exclaimed, slapping his palms against the stone. “You’ve been around _him_ for too long if that’s what you think. In fact, if he wants this baby and you don’t, I’d say you’ve changed places. Dying won’t undo anything that you either did or _think_ you did. Why not think about _living?”_

“I meant to try to save as many innocent people as I… could attribute deaths to my past choices… and if I did that, I had lived long enough.”

“Be a martyr for ‘justice’ just like him. Funny, that didn’t happen to him either. Plans change,” he said, “especially stupid ones.”

“It could yet happen to all of us,” she said quietly.

“And if it doesn’t? If you planned for a death that didn’t come, and then you find that you have to go on living? What then?” He ran his hands through his dark hair. “Look, Sis, I shouldn’t… he’s right. This is your business. If you truly don’t want it… it’s up to you. But if _this_ is the only reason you have, you should reconsider. That’s all I’m saying.”

He got up from the chair. “There’s food. This is a Grey Warden-occupied fortress,” he said with a forced laugh. “There is always food.” He gave her a final glance before leaving.

Alone, Caitlyn Hawke brooded on the discussion she had just had. She had much to think about. At length, she came to a decision. Rising from her own seat, she followed her nose until she found the kitchens that the Wardens had established.

* * *

She heaped a rich stew into a bowl and scanned the bench. A few Wardens were there, eating, as Wardens often did. In fact, food had been something of a problem for Anders at times while they made camp. She wondered how Wardens coped when they were actually stationed in Blighted lands where there was nothing fit to eat….

He was seated at the table, apart from the Wardens, but it seemed to be by choice rather than ostracism. That did not particularly surprise her after the fight they’d had in the morning. She carried her bowl to the bench and sat next to him. He turned and fixed her with a hard stare.

She did not respond in words, but met his gaze with hers, apology written in her face. She took his hand, caressing the skin, causing the scowl on his face to disappear at the gesture. His eyes widened, but only for a moment. In the next, he leaned over and murmured into her ear, _“I’m going too, remember—and I am a healer. You will be all right.”_

She hoped it was true.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little story, as promised, has two possible endings because I’m not sure myself which I like better, so you can pick the one you prefer. They are marked with bold headings. Ending 1 puts some issues to bed in a way that the second ending does not, but… well… **major character death warning** for that one (and you can probably predict who). Ending 2 has a key event happening differently.

  **(XI) To Weisshaupt**

_Three months later._

The loyal Wardens of Antiva, Rivain, and the eastern Marcher cities had joined them. This comprised a rather large party, the largest—Stroud warned them—that they could likely expect to join at once.

“They were the farthest from Corypheus’ influence,” he cautioned the Hawkes. “As we head west, we’re likely to encounter fewer Wardens altogether.”

“Why is that?” Hawke inquired.

Stroud and Carver exchanged grim looks. “Word has reached the First Warden and his… followers… of our existence and apparent intentions. He is mustering the ones who were complicit.”

“Complicit in Corypheus’ schemes?”

“That and worse,” Stroud said darkly.

“Worse?” Caitlyn was chilled. What could be worse than what the Wardens had done to aid Corypheus?

Carver looked exceptionally grim. “It’s bad. You had better know this as well… Anders. You were closer to it than I was.”

Caitlyn noticed that he did not use a derogatory nickname for Anders.

“During the Fifth Blight, there is a reason why no Grey Wardens except Riordan of Orlais attempted to render aid to Ferelden,” Carver said darkly. “It has to do with….” He hesitated, glancing at his sister. “Did anyone ever tell you about a… darkspawn… called the Architect?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said.

“I suppose _he_ told you,” Carver said.

“I _fought_ the Architect,” Anders said pointedly.

“Fought _beside_ the Architect, you mean,” said Carver.

“Yes, well, that was Caron’s choice, not mine. Are you implying that he was part of… whatever Warden conspiracy you are talking about?” Anders said, horrified.

Carver shrugged. “I don’t know, and what I have to say actually has nothing to do with what happened in Amaranthine. It goes back further than that and has to do with the Fifth Blight. About thirty years ago, maybe a bit longer, King Maric was drawn into a conspiracy. It involved the Architect and his misguided attempt to ‘free’ the Archdemon. The First Warden—the one who served during the Blight, the one we’re going to take down—thought that Maric and the Wardens who went with him deliberately conspired with the Architect to begin a Blight in order to weaken Orlais, and he had ties to Clarel and the Orlesian Wardens who ended up in Corypheus’s service. That’s why he wouldn’t authorize anyone to go to Ferelden when the Blight began there instead. It was a _lie_ that our old country refused all assistance. Loghain just refused all _Orlesian_ assistance, the only kind offered… and that was offered in bad faith. The First Warden was willing to see an entire people destroyed out of spite.”

“Puts me in perspective, doesn’t it?” Anders commented.

“This isn’t about you, and that wasn’t appropriate,” Caitlyn said quietly but pointedly to him as Carver, Stroud, and the other Wardens who were marching at the head of the army gave him death glares for his insolent remark.

“My _point_ is that the First Warden’s corruption goes much deeper than being taken in by Corypheus. He is malevolent. The rot starts at the top,” Carver growled. “He will do anything for political power. He practically _has_ turned the Anderfels into his personal kingdom. That’s not what Grey Wardens are supposed to be about.”

“And we are going to scour the rot from Weisshaupt,” Stroud said firmly.

* * *

As Stroud predicted, the road became more difficult and the number of recruits dropped as the army marched west. A few rogue Wardens did join up, but those were not the only kinds of people that the group encountered.

* * *

“Take him down!” Caitlyn screamed as she cast a blast of ice. A group of corrupt Wardens—and, she was utterly certain, blood thralls—had ambushed them, targeting the leadership.

Carver swung his greatsword in powerful arcs, cleaving through melee fighters, but he was unable to reach the leader of the group, a powerful blood mage Warden. He gazed at his sister wretchedly as she rallied another spell. She was already showing signs of fatigue.

Anders was also flagging. The blood mage had targeted Caitlyn immediately, perhaps identifying the magical threat she posed, perhaps recognizing that she was the Champion of Kirkwall—or, possibly, noticing the small bulge on her abdomen and despicably deciding that this made her an easy target—and Caitlyn herself was reluctant to use blood magic to restore health and mana from foes, unsure of what it might do to the baby. As a result, Anders had had to heal her repeatedly in the difficult fight—and his reserves were nearly gone. He thought he had one more spell in him before he was down, and he wanted it to count.

He rallied the last of his mana and slammed his staff’s tip to the ground. Arcs of lightning struck the blood mage, stunning him momentarily.

“I’m done for now,” Anders croaked to her as he collapsed to his knees.

She was horrified. “But….”

He sprawled on the field. “He’s stunned. Finish the bastard and use that spell you have to heal yourself.”

In a flash, she saw his point. Better to live and risk unknown effects of blood magic on the baby than for both her and the baby to die. She raised her hand, already bleeding from the battle, and slammed the blood mage Warden back with a powerful curse. She had not used any blood spells on him until now, and she saw the momentary shock in his eyes as a cloud of red exploded from his midsection. He bled profusely, and as he staggered, she steeled herself for what she was about to do and cast the blood magic spell to heal herself. Red vapor swirled from the bodies of her enemies and coalesced around her, revitalizing her. She felt nothing amiss in her womb; it seemed that the baby had taken no harm from this.

With the mage dead, the blood thralls became disoriented and very easy to kill. It was a matter of picking off the stragglers at this point, which the Wardens could handle. Caitlyn sat down hard on the ground next to Anders, who lay on his back, breathing heavily.

“So much for principles,” he muttered.

Stroud eyed Hawke warily. “By any means necessary,” he said. “You are not a Grey Warden, but you fight with us. I… am grateful for your help.”

* * *

That evening, as the Wardens made camp, the siblings sat next to each other by a campfire, staring into the blaze as they spoke to each other. It was easier not to look each other in the eye somehow.

“I’m glad you showed him mercy that day,” Carver said abruptly. “I thought it was stupid, but… you were right.”

“There were a couple of times when I also thought it was stupid,” she confessed quietly. “During the height of the war against Corypheus, I thought… well, I thought that _he_ was basically gone and it was just a darkspawn and a Fade spirit fighting for a body.” She gazed ahead. “I thought that instead of _being_ merciful, I had acted vengefully, to punish him.”

“I don’t like him,” Carver admitted. “I never understood what you saw in him, and still don’t, and what he did in Kirkwall that day—well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. Oh, Maker, here he is. He’s like a leech on you,” he groaned as Anders approached their campfire, fresh from the tent, recovered from being drained.

“You’re saying I am attached to her? Guilty as charged.” He sat down. “I don’t like you either, just so you know,” he said conversationally. “You’re rude, petty, and boorish. But you are also her brother.”

Carver scowled. “I have better reasons. But… you’re fighting for the Grey Wardens, as a Warden… and you’re the father of my niece or nephew. The Hawke family might have died out otherwise… because _I_ don’t have a demon in me to mitigate the taint.”

Anders was about to open his mouth to protest that Justice was not a demon, but Caitlyn gave him a quick, small shake of her head. He closed his lips.

She was getting sick of their constant bickering and had been tempted to intervene, to shut it down, but instead she had decided, this time, to see if all that they needed to do was to spill their last bit of bile for each other. The gamble appeared to have paid off. Saying these things, the admissions of inveterate personal dislike tempered with grudging family obligation, had somehow cleared the air.

* * *

As the Wardens marched in a generally northwestward direction, they picked up additional Wardens and allies, though the numbers who joined grew ever fewer and the individuals often had terrible stories to tell of being psychically compelled to commit atrocities through the voice of Corypheus or forced by threat of death from their corrupted commanding officers. Many of these joined the throng out of a desire for revenge rather than to restore the order to its former honor—and some even admitted it.

“I’m the last of my unit,” growled a disheveled woman wielding double blades whom the Wardens identified by sense on the Orlesian-Nevarran border. Her griffon leathers had become worn and scratched, and it would not have surprised Hawke in the slightest if she had been a bandit at some point. She reached behind her back and stroked the edge of one of the blades almost lustfully. “All of the others, gone, and dishonorably too, fighting for that monster. If the First Warden backed it, I want him dead. I want to _gut_ every one of them who did this to us.”

Hawke felt a shiver travel down her back at that. She glanced uneasily at Anders, unsure how he—or, more accurately, how _Justice—_ would take this kind of expressed sentiment. They did not need the spirit to become Vengeance again, egged on by this….

“There will be plenty of traitors to ‘gut,’ I’m quite sure,” Stroud said, a hint of disapproval in his words. “We must also be prepared to rebuild the order as it should be. If you are willing to do that, you may join us.”

The woman hitched up her belt. “I suppose I’ll feel more like that after the bastards are sent to the Void. I’m with you.” She gazed from face to face of those at the head of the army, her eyes settling on Caitlyn. “You’re the one from Kirkwall. You’re not a Warden… at least, I don’t think you are. Hard to tell who is and who isn’t with so many around.” Her gaze shifted to Caitlyn’s belly, now very round indeed. “I hope you aren’t.”

“I am not a Grey Warden,” Caitlyn confirmed. “My brother Carver is. And… my… partner. I march with them.”

“Your partner,” she said, eyeing Anders. It was clear that she knew exactly who he was and did not like it. “Well. We’ve all got sins to our names. Maker knows I do, after that war. Being a Warden makes up for everything… if we do right.”

* * *

It was getting difficult for Caitlyn to travel. The Wardens had few horses, since darkspawn frightened them and rendered them virtually useless, but she had finally bought one herself from a farmer with her own funds. Riding was much easier, and to her surprise, none of the Grey Wardens—at least, none that she could tell—resented her for being on horseback in her condition.

As they crossed into the Anderfels, she suddenly had a frightening thought pass through her head. _Soon,_ she realized with a start of panic. _I will have to go into labor soon. I cannot be on a battlefield like this. It will be rough as a new mother, but Anders can mitigate a lot of that with healing magic, I’m sure…. What am I going to do with this child, though?_ The Wardens had some support staff, to cook and do routine duties for them, but none who knew about childcare. It was not a typical concern for the Grey Wardens.

“I suppose this is where my father was born,” he muttered disapprovingly, gazing at the bleak landscape. “I wish my child wasn’t going to be born here.”

“It can’t be helped,” she said.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.

“More or less. I can’t wait too many more days, though. Do you know how to induce labor?”

“I had to do it for a refugee once,” he said.

“She survived, I hope?” Caitlyn said with a wry smile.

“She and the baby survived.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do afterward,” she admitted. “No one here can tend to an infant. I don’t want to be useless. If there is no one else, then I’ll… but I’d rather fight.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, his face twisting. “Why risk orphaning the baby? Your brother might fall too. What then? Strangers might raise our child. We haven’t met any of our old companions yet. They probably aren’t joining us. Varric _can’t._ He’s Viscount of Kirkwall. This _is_ a possibility if we both fight.”

“It’s a possibility no matter what. From what I understand, the First Warden and his cronies would be more than happy to cut down noncombatants if they accompanied an army.”

“You are a powerful mage. You’re not helpless if that happens. Please—don’t go looking for a fight.”

He looked very earnest, and she could tell that this was important to him. As much as she disliked it, she could also see the sense of his position. “I promise, then. I won’t be in the middle of the fray unless it comes to me.” _There,_ she thought. _I didn’t promise that I would stay out of battle entirely._

That very night, a surprising, but most welcome, messenger joined the army.

* * *

  **(XII) Legacy**

“Aveline!” Caitlyn exclaimed, greeting her old friend with an awkward hug. She was so large now that it was not easy at all, and Aveline was in full armor.

Aveline patted her on the back, nodded her greetings to Carver, and gave Anders a deadly scowl, as if she wanted to arrest him on the spot— _which she probably does,_ Hawke thought. But she was here—she had come—and she had brought someone else whom Hawke knew, someone she was very glad indeed to see.

“Orana,” she said to the shy elven maid.

“I am pleased to serve you again, my lady,” said Orana.

“Varric and the Inquisitor visited us,” Aveline explained. “He told us about your plans and your… situation… and urged me to bring her with me. Orana has been working for us since… the Gallows. This is a letter from Varric, in fact.” She handed the letter to Caitlyn.

“Donnic isn’t coming?”

“He’s at home with our daughter. We can’t abandon her. Varric would take her in, of course, but we can’t ask that of him. One of us must stay… just in case.”

“I’ve made this argument to her,” muttered Anders.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” she said in severe tones. “Hawke. You should read that letter.”

“You’re not going to tell me what’s in it and make my life easier?” Caitlyn teased her.

“Nope. Varric had to write it, so you have to read it.”

Caitlyn opened the letter.

 

_Hawke,_

_You really do have a knack for getting into trouble. Going into war while “up the spout” happens among the dwarves, and that’s not a compliment. I personally think you should’ve burned or frozen off his bits years ago, but that’s neither here nor there._

 

“Wonderful,” Anders snarked, reading over her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to send my regards when this is over.”

 

_In all seriousness, congratulations. Just… do me a favor and make sure that Little Hawke is like you and not daddy dearest. We’ve just managed to get this place in order and I’d rather it didn’t get all in an uproar again in twenty years._

_Yes—I can hardly believe it, but somehow, Kirkwall is the safest it’s been in years. Her Inquisitorialness’ Carta connections have been useful indeed. Of course, this means that the big three—Carta, Coterie, and Merchant’s Guild—have even more influence now, but they are at least keeping the low-level street gangs from taking root, even if only in the interest of quashing competition. I wonder if the C’s are going legitimate. If so, you can credit Her Worship for that._

_I regret that I can’t join you on this one, but I have word that three of our old comrades-at-arms will be doing so._

_Take down some bad ones for me, Hawke. Just like old times._

_Varric_

 

She folded the letter and placed it carefully in her pack. “Thank you, Aveline,” she said sincerely. “I assume he means Fenris, Isabela, and Merrill.”

She nodded. “They’re going to rendezvous once we’re farther into the country.”

“I can’t wait to see them. I wonder if…. Yes, probably.”

Aveline raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“The sooner, the better,” she said, taking a deep breath. “When we are at a good spot, I should… get this over with.”

Aveline suddenly understood. She placed a gauntleted hand on Hawke’s arm. “I’ve been through it. I can help you do the same.”

“Thank you,” Caitlyn said again, meaning it. “That means a lot to me.”

* * *

Three days later, Hawke decided to do what had to be done. There would not likely be a better place or time for it in the future. The army, quite large enough now to take on Weisshaupt—or so she hoped—was making camp that evening near a small village to gather supplies and ready themselves for the final push. Unless something went very wrong, they would remain in that site for a few days to a week to acquire what foodstuffs they needed, purchase weapons, and rally. From that point onward, there would be no multi-night stops until they seized the Grey Warden fortress.

When she told Anders that she wanted to induce labor that evening, he sat down hard on the nearest cushion, winded.

“Is… everything all right?” she said, sitting beside him.

“I’m overwhelmed now that it has come to it. Oh, I can _do_ it—I don’t mean that—but the idea is….”

“You’ve known for seven and a half months,” she said, smiling.

“It’s different now.” He gazed at her. “Most people never get a second chance, but you chose to give me one for some reason, and now… well, thank you, love.”

She met his eyes with hers, but her thoughts were focused on his words. There had been times, especially in Kirkwall, when Caitlyn had questioned if he loved her at all—if his obsession with his cause and the spirit inside had overpowered all other feelings, and if she, by being a mage, was mostly just another point for him to make to the people he was opposing, another symbol to a person who had merged with a being that thought symbolically. Now, she realized that he really did love her. It wasn’t just an empty term of endearment. Impulsively, she hugged him.

He broke the moment with an awkward chuckle. “Please don’t name the baby after me, though.”

She chuckled as well. “I am going to name the baby after my mother or father… whether it is a mage or not.”

“It’s probably a mage,” he said. “In Tevinter, the offspring of two mages is usually a mage. Your mother was a lovely person, and what you’ve told me of your father… he or she should be proud to bear one of their names.”

* * *

Caitlyn clenched Aveline’s armored hand tightly, vaguely relieved—to the extent she could think cogent thoughts—that her friend _was_ in armor. Otherwise this would have been a strong enough grip to break bones, Caitlyn was sure…. She was wearing nothing but an open dressing gown, and they had hung a makeshift curtain blocking her view of Anders, who was doing his spells to move the process along. It had been necessary to block her view because she had screamed a hex at him after the tenth time he told her in detail exactly what he had just done.

 _“I don’t want to know!”_ she had shouted.

“It’s _happening_ to you,” he had protested, wiping frost from his hair.

“I just want it _over with._ I never studied healing, so it all sounds awful to me. Keep it to yourself!” She had readied another hex, making him duck away quickly.

He and Aveline had hung the curtain from the tent ceiling after that, reducing his compulsion to tell her everything once he could no longer see her face. After they had put up the curtain and Anders was finally quiet, things improved. Caitlyn realized that he truly was an expert at his craft. Surely this could be much worse….

Aveline noticed her friend’s lack of complaint too. “It was rather painful and unpleasant for me,” she said. “I didn’t have a healer—there were basically no mages in Kirkwall then due to the war—so it was entirely natural. You’re lucky.”

She acknowledged this with a nod.

Soon the birth process was complete, and after an excruciating pain, she felt a wave of healing magic hit her, decreasing her suffering quickly as her birth injuries knitted back together at once. An ear-splitting scream broke the silence and continued to ring out. Anders finally emerged from around the curtain, holding an extremely angry newborn and looking awed.

“It’s a boy,” he said, “and he’s perfect. Here you are… Mum.”

A smile had formed involuntarily on her face as she accepted him. If she had had eyes for anyone but him and Anders, she would have noticed that Aveline was also beaming. “Malcolm,” she said, placing him against her chest for his first meal. Blessedly, he stopped screaming. She touched the small, yet oversized, head gently. He had a crop of light reddish-blond hair: her hair and her father’s, but lighter, so some of Anders’ as well. It was as she had expected, with two fair-haired parents, but it was still special to see the resemblance with her own eyes.

“He’s lovely,” Aveline said. “Shall I tell your brother he can come in now?”

Carver had not wanted to be in the tent at all—nominally because “Stroud might need me for something,” but both women—and even Anders—knew what the actual reason was. He was seated on a chair outside, waiting to be given word to come in to visit.

“Please,” Caitlyn said, as Anders took down the curtain and covered her with the skirt of her dressing gown.

She got up, and in a minute, she and Carver came inside. Despite the scowl on his face, Caitlyn could tell that her brother really was pleased. The glower melted away at once.

“Malcolm Hawke,” he said, acknowledging his nephew. “Another Malcolm Hawke in the world.” He touched the baby’s soft hair too and glanced at Anders, his expression an armistice. “I’m glad.”

* * *

**(XIII) Promises in Darkness**

The peaceful, restful period ended far too quickly. Weisshaupt beckoned still, whatever might have been happening to some of the leaders of the incoming army. It was not easy to march—or ride—with a newborn, and Caitlyn was eternally grateful to Aveline for having the maid Orana accompany her. Her old housekeeper was a treasure, carrying Malcolm when Caitlyn could not. She hated that her first weeks as a mother would be spoiled by this, but there was nothing to be done about it short of deserting the army—and she would not hear of that now.

One night, she was in the commanding officers’ tent making a report of her correspondence. “We’re supposed to meet _them_ tomorrow,” she said to Stroud and the other Wardens. “My old friends. They are not Wardens, but they can be trusted utterly.”

“They can,” Carver vouched for her.

Stroud nodded. “We will be glad to have them join. They are likely to want to take orders directly from you, rather than any of us, since that is what happened in the past.”

Caitlyn wondered what they would think. She had told them all her news, so they should have had time to accustom themselves to the idea. She didn’t expect that Isabela and Merrill would have any issues fighting beside Anders, but Fenris…. She hoped that the years had done away with his disappointment in her for using blood magic and sparing Anders. And she hoped that her decision to have a child with him had not stirred up ill feeling all over again.

* * *

Stroud and the Hawkes bade the army halt as a trio of figures appeared on the horizon. Caitlyn, on horseback, her infant strapped to her and in a magic-induced sleep, instantly realized who they were. A smile formed on her face, and as she glanced at Carver, she noticed that he was also smiling. _It is rare to see him smile,_ she thought.

The figures became clear, revealing—as they had all suspected—Fenris, Merrill, and Isabela.

“Well met!” she called out to her old companions, beaming as she carefully dismounted. Little Malcolm let out a complaint as he eased from his sleep. As they approached, Caitlyn took quiet note of their facial expressions.

Merrill was innocently pleased. She and Carver exchanged an oddly tender—if very mismatched as to size—hug. She greeted Caitlyn and hesitantly touched the baby’s fuzzy crop of reddish-blond hair as if offering a Dalish benediction, then drew away, smiling at her friend. She then nodded to Anders in silent greeting.

Fenris, Caitlyn noticed, bore a very conflicted expression. He clearly thought it… not a good thing… for two mages to reproduce— _perhaps especially two mages he last saw as a violent revolutionary and a maleficar,_ Caitlyn thought sadly—but he also seemed to want to support _one_ of the mages as an old friend. Finally, an expression on his face that was half a grimace and half a smile, he offered congratulations to her. He did not spare a single glance for Anders, but she supposed that was better than anyone could have expected and probably better than was deserved.

To Caitlyn’s surprise, Isabela was the one who looked awkward, as if she wanted to be as far from this small, pudgy, whining, messy person as possible, and utterly horrified that her old friend was partially responsible for his existence. Her lips were curled, and her eyes were wide, as she kept her distance, as if afraid that Malcolm would projectile vomit on her. It was amusing.

“We march on Weisshaupt,” she explained to them. “The Warden command has detailed information about the layout of the place and the First Warden’s inner circle.”

Isabela looked relieved to have the topic changed to combat. “Tell us everything.”

“Everything that isn’t a Grey Warden secret,” Carver growled.

She rolled her eyes. “Of _course.”_

* * *

Weisshaupt was as grim as all the records indicated. Visible from a distance, it loomed ahead, threatening, oddly dark and foreboding.

 _The destiny of how many of us?_ Caitlyn thought morbidly. _Some will die here._

Stroud bade them make camp in as secluded a spot as he could find. “I have every reason to believe that the First Warden has seen our approach,” he said. “We must always be on our guard. He will not fight honorably. It is better for us not to assail the fortress itself, but rather, to draw them out, but we must prepare for the possibility that they will attack us at night. You must not think of our enemies as Wardens. They have abjured their oaths and betrayed their order. We should consider this the same as a battle against the darkspawn.”

“In a way, it _is,”_ Anders muttered.

* * *

That night, he waited until Caitlyn and Malcolm were asleep before leaving their tent and heading to Carver’s. He hoped that Carver had not gone to bed with Merrill yet. It was none of his business and he knew it, but it was one thing he didn’t want to see or hear. Carver’s snarled opinion to that effect, back in the Vimmark prison, came back to his thoughts, making him crack a wry smile.

To his immense relief, the warrior was seated outside the tent, sharpening the blade of his greatsword. He scowled at Anders’ approach.

“I know why you’re here,” Carver said in a low voice. He scowled silently at the mage. “If we’re going to have this discussion, I hope my sister is asleep.”

“She was when I left the tent.” Anders met Carver’s scowl with one of his own. “Do you know what happened to your sister at Adamant? She went into the Fade with Inquisitor Cadash and Warden Loghain, and one of them had to stay behind and die fighting a monstrous demon so that the others could escape. Loghain volunteered to save your sister. That’s why she gathered the loyal Wardens. She made him a promise.”

Carver was startled out of his glower. “I knew that… something… had happened.”

“If a situation arises in battle in which one of us must die, let it be me,” Anders said. “Don’t sacrifice yourself for me.”

The scowl returned. “She would never forgive me if that happened. She’d much prefer that I died instead of you—”

“I don’t believe you—she cares about both of us and I don’t think she could choose—but _I_ am telling you to _let me do it,”_ he insisted. “It’s the least I can do to atone after all I’ve done. She said she couldn’t stand having anyone else die in her stead,” he finished, his voice low and quiet. “She understands this sort of thing, Carver. She lived it. She wouldn’t hold it against you for letting me do it, but I couldn’t look her in the eye again if I cost her her brother. Not after everything else I have done over the years to cause her harm. If this kind of situation arises… it should be me. It would be… justice.”

A potent silence lay between them, broken by Carver’s voice. “It would still hurt my sister terribly, especially now that she has the baby. She wants him to grow up knowing you, for some reason. Let’s hope neither of us has to die tomorrow.” Hesitantly, because it really was a great effort, he extended his hand for Anders to shake.

* * *

“Who are you?” roared Stroud far too early the next morning. His bellow awakened everyone in the leadership, including both Hawkes and their companions.

“I am Senior Warden Mage Marcellus Viridius of Tevinter,” said Stroud’s visitor. “I have traveled here with my fellow Wardens to offer our support and our staves to your cause.”

“Why only now?” Stroud growled. “We have traveled the breadth of Thedas, gathering allies to our side. Why should we trust you?”

“Perhaps this will convince you?”

There was a pause, and then Stroud spoke again, his voice calmer. “I… see. That is… very well. In that case, you may fight beside us, certainly.”

Caitlyn was fully roused now, and she wondered what the mage had presented Stroud to convince him. Anders was already out of the tent to meet the new Wardens. She did not know what she thought of that… but if Stroud trusted them, surely they were all right….

Later, once Malcolm was fed, Orana was playing with him, and Caitlyn was in her runed battle robes, she asked him. “What did that Tevinter Warden show Stroud?”

“A document from Dorian Pavus, the son of a magister and a companion of the Inquisitor, to vouch for them,” he said.

“Oh, I know who that is,” she said, relieved.

“They’re all right, really,” he said. He drew out the amulet that he wore around his neck.   Caitlyn’s eyes widened in surprise: It was the Tevinter Chantry symbol she had given him in Kirkwall years ago. “They approved of this.”

“You want to join their unit,” she stated. That was what he had been up to, lobbying for acceptance with them, not seeking out dubious magical information.

“If I make it out of this… it’s a possibility. Perhaps my only one.”

“Don’t say ‘if.’ I know nothing is certain, but don’t talk that way.”

He did not respond.

* * *

The battle was going well. Stroud’s forces fought the enemy valiantly and effectively, the mages among them casting wide-area spells to freeze the corrupted Wardens in their tracks while non-magical fighters then hacked, slashed, and feathered them with arrows in the fields ahead of Weisshaupt.

Some of the enemy, when it came to it, realized that they could not slaughter their fellow Wardens this way, and they cast down their weapons and begged for mercy. These were taken captive.

Gradually, the army of Stroud and the Hawkes cut its way through the defending forces until they were ready to storm the keep.

“If my numbers are correct, the great bulk of the forces fought on the field,” he said to the inner circle, which included the Hawkes, their companions, and a few trusted senior officers from the Warden posts across Thedas. “The First Warden and his favorites should be holed up in there.”

“Coward,” seethed Carver. He was spattered in blood, most of it not his own, and he was angry and riled from battle.

“If there are so few of them, this should be easy,” said one of the Senior Wardens.

It wasn’t.

* * *

Caitlyn and a few of the Senior Wardens remained outside the keep as the rankers continued to fight on the battlefield. The loyal Warden army would need leadership if Stroud fell, and they could not afford to send all the leading officers into an unknown danger. Both Anders and Carver had gone in, as well as Merrill, Aveline, and Fenris. Her heart pattered in her chest for all the people she cared about.

She also understood, now, Anders’ and Carver’s arguments. Malcolm was safe in the tent with Orana, and the camp was in no danger of being overrun by the enemy, but she still worried for him. As a powerful mage well accustomed to combat, she could have protected her son better than a helpless maid! The sooner this was over, the better. What was _taking_ so long, anyway….

* * *

Inside the keep, something very strange kept happening. The First Warden wielded a greatsword which clearly gleamed with magic. That in itself was not unusual; many weapons were enchanted. But something odd indeed happened whenever one of the Wardens seemed to have him caught.

Carver had just about had the wretch pinned against the wall. He brought down his own greatsword… and then stopped, the great blade hovering in midair, his muscles rippling from the strain.

The First Warden darted aside stealthily, catching Carver with a glancing blow of his sword, hobbling him. Carver and the other Wardens—minus one—were suddenly confused and winded, their heads swimming as if they were about to faint. Anders alone had not been affected. He kept his focus on the First Warden, sending spells at him, doing minor damage but not stopping his movement. When they all came to, the man was on the other side of the vaulted central hall.

“He’s a mage!” exclaimed Merrill in her fey voice.

“He’s got a sword,” Carver said, groaning from his wound.

“Yet I am a mage,” the First Warden confirmed. He raised his hand, glaring at Aveline, selecting his target. In the next moment, she was down, kneeling, gasping as he bled her. A translucent magical shield of black and red whirled around him—and remained.

Aveline Vallen was a very tough warrior, and even this spell could not kill her, but it disabled her for further fighting right now. She coughed and hobbled to her feet.

“We need to regroup and recover,” Stroud said, gesturing for them to retreat from the keep. As they did, Anders and Merrill exchanged dark, grim glances with each other.   It seemed that they had each arrived at the same conclusion.

* * *

“It would seem that our First Warden has been keeping a secret for a very long time,” said Anders. “He has presented himself as a greatsword-bearing warrior… and he _can_ wield it… but he is also a Tevinter-trained blood mage.”

Shouts of dismay erupted from the group.

“I’m guessing that he learned from Clarel, or maybe even Corypheus himself through the mental connection, how to manipulate the taint and plant thoughts into Wardens’ minds like an Archdemon can do to darkspawn,” Anders said sourly. “Justice and I are strong enough now that we can identify it for what it is and fight it off, and I am unique among the Wardens in having… assistance. But that’s why this is happening to them, why they can’t hit him.”

Caitlyn gripped her staff tightly, a grim expression on her face. “I’m not a Warden. I’ll take care of it. It will be just like the… first… fight against Corypheus.”

“Not alone,” said Carver, standing beside her. “You can fight him with his own preferred magic, right? Hit him. Blood-thrall him yourself to make him stop doing it. I’ll cut him down then.”

Anders shook his head. “It won’t work.”

“Why won’t it work?” she said tersely.

Merrill stepped up, her face deadly grim. “He has made a magical defense out of the taint. I did a bit of that myself, blending blood magic with the magic of the elvhen. He has an arcane shield derived from the Blight magic. It can only be pierced by a Warden.”

Caitlyn felt the sensation of a stone dropping down her gut. “But that means….” She glanced at Anders in stark terror.

He gripped his staff in dark resignation. “It means I’m doing it.” He gazed at her. “Don’t enter this fight, love. _Please.”_

Her eyes were fixed upon him in anguish and horror. That sounded _exactly_ like a last request, and the look in his eyes indicated that he expected it to be so. “But….”

Carver hitched up his armor and unsheathed his blade. “I’ll take him out after….” He sighed. “After his magical shield is down,” he finished, not looking at his sister.

Caitlyn gazed upon them, her heart breaking as they stalked into the vaulted hall. Carver remained behind, lurking in the shadows, as Anders went to confront the First Warden.

* * *

“You dare to come back?” shouted the First Warden as the mage approached him. “Alone?”

“I am not alone.” _Justice is always with me._

The First Warden scoffed. “You are a fool, then, to betray the fact that your pathetic allies are lurking somewhere behind you. So be it.”

Anders did not hesitate. He summoned all his mana and cast the most powerful frost spell that he could. The blast of concentrated white cold struck the Warden’s Blight-magic shield, piercing it, shredding it at once.

“How? That shouldn’t happen!” screamed the man. He hefted his greatsword and charged for Anders, who was heaving his breath, watching the Warden’s approach helplessly.

With a bellowing war cry, Carver charged forward, his silver blade shining in the torchlight. The swords clanged together as the two warriors engaged each other.

From corners and balconies, swordsmen and archers supporting the First Warden emerged, almost as if they had been enthralled to do so if—by some strange chance—his evil hold over the other Wardens broke. Fenris, Aveline, Merrill, Isabela, and the other Senior Wardens entered the fray to engage them.

Caitlyn knew that she was not supposed to get involved in this, but she could not stand watching. She lurked behind the doorway, casting spells whenever one of her allies seemed to be in trouble.

An arrow pierced Isabela’s right shoulder, making her stab with that blade go awry. The fighter she was engaging on the floor raised his own blade—

From her comparatively safe spot, Caitlyn sent a fireball directly at him. It struck, wreathing him in flame and giving Isabela time to land a fatal blow.

The First Warden shouted in outrage at the loss of another of his men. It seemed that the arrogant man had finally realized that he could lose this battle. He kicked Carver hard with his steel-toed boot, sending him reeling from the dirty blow. With a snarl, the First Warden hefted his blade to cleave him in two.

* * *

**(XIV-A) Ending One: Na Via Lerno Victoria**

_“Let it be me.”_

The promise he had extorted from Carver rang through Anders’ mind as the events seemed to play before his eyes in slow motion. Time itself seemed to slow down. In his mind, he felt the pushing of Justice to take control.

 _No. I want to die as myself._ Justice resisted, but the sheer force of Anders’ will defeated his push.

He raised his staff, summoned his flagging mana, and blasted the First Warden with a force spell that halted the inexorable arc of his blade. Anders breathed deeply and sent another spell, a frost spell, at him to buy some time, but it was weaker than he had hoped—too weak. _I am running low again,_ he realized.

Carver managed to roll out from under the First Warden, but he could not get to his feet fast enough. He caught out the corner of his eye as the First Warden brought his greatsword in an arc, slowed but not slow enough. The edge made contact with Anders’ side, his mage’s robes providing no protection against the enchanted blade. A river of blood poured from the gaping wound as the blade stuck for a moment. When the First Warden pulled it out, the flow of blood increased rapidly. Anders hobbled and collapsed to the ground, his staff clattering away uselessly.

Caitlyn was already halfway across the great hall as the First Warden brought his blade down vertically, impaling Anders cruelly through his chest, just below the heart.

She could not cry anything, no outburst of grief and denial or even rage. All she could do was cast the darkest, most powerful blood hemorrhage she could on the First Warden— _too late,_ she thought even as he staggered from it and Carver and Stroud dismembered and decapitated him at last.

“Heal yourself,” she choked, kneeling before Anders as he sprawled in a lake, a sea, of his own blood.

He was as pale as death already, and she knew it was useless to ask. He had lost too much blood even for one of her reverse blood magic healing spells to be effective now.

 _Why didn’t I ever learn healing?_ she cursed herself in thought. _I mastered three dozen ways to kill with magic. Why?_ “Does _anyone_ know healing?” she cried desperately to the others, but there was but one mage among the Senior Wardens, just the Tevinter, who was staring in dismay and disappointment.

Anders shook his head weakly, barely perceptibly, but to her it was the starkest negative she had ever seen and ever would see. He reached for her hand.

Her green eyes wide with grief and numbness, she clutched his, determined to give him this, for the last thing he touched to be her hand, the last thing he saw to be her face.

For a fraction of a second, she caught a gleam of whitish-blue light in his eyes, but it vanished at once as he gasped. _Justice just left,_ she realized. _But then—_

His eyes were his own when the light went out of them and they lost focus.

* * *

Merrill’s touch finally brought Caitlyn out of her fog of grief and disbelief. She whirled sharply to see all of her friends standing nearby, gazing sympathetically at her, even Fenris and Aveline.

 _“Falon’Din enasal enaste,”_ Merrill said gently, touching his forehead. This gesture finally brought Caitlyn to dry sobs. She did not care that he was not elf-blooded, had never lived among the Dalish, and had had a conflicted relationship with Merrill. At this moment, all that mattered was the sentiment.

“I couldn’t—” she began to say as she rose, wobbling on her feet.

Aveline supported her around the waist, allowing Hawke to partially swoon. “Don’t. Whatever it is, don’t. This was his choice, and he died a hero.”

Overcome, she clung to her oldest friend’s blood-spattered armor and rested her head on Aveline’s shoulders, grieving beyond tears.

* * *

The loyal Grey Wardens took the fortress soon after that, though Hawke and most of her companions had not been able to fight any longer. The survivors of the battle hailed Stroud as the new First Warden, and he announced that joining him in the reformation of the order would be loyal, honorable Warden-Commanders of the Grey for each nation that had such a post. Carver would now be Warden-Commander of Ansburg. Caitlyn was glad for the ancient order and for her brother, but she could spare few thoughts for anything except her own loss. Her heart was torn apart again when Orana was admitted to the keep, bearing a crying, screaming Malcolm. It was as if the baby knew he had lost his father.

As darkness fell, the Wardens made a great pyre for their dead. It was tradition that they would give up all other ties when they joined the order, and therefore if they fell together and it was possible for their bodies to be burned, they would share a common pyre. Most of the fallen were indeed piled on the largest one. However, even among the Wardens, there were those who had special relationships with others who would want to keep their loved one’s ashes separate for later personal collection. Although Stroud was generally a Warden traditionalist, he did not want to begin his tenure as First Warden on such a pettily tyrannical note, and he made no objection to this.

Caitlyn could not set the fire. It was too much, looking at his body laid out so peacefully but casting the spell to reduce it violently to ash. Merrill did it for her instead.

She clutched Malcolm close as the sparks flew into the starry night. The baby mumbled unhappily, disliking the clamminess of the evening and the smoke, even though Merrill cast subtle spells to waft it away from Caitlyn, her son, and—once he moved away from the Grey Warden common pyre to stand beside her—Carver.

Fenris, Isabela, and Aveline joined them during the night, marking the funeral of their old companion with—Caitlyn realized suddenly—genuine respect, even among those who had believed he should have died years ago. It was not balm for the loss, but it provided some amount of comfort, Caitlyn thought.

 _I’m taking you home,_ she thought as she watched the fire. _You may have fought for the Grey Wardens, but you gave your life for my family. I will keep you._

* * *

**(XIV-B) Ending Two: Championing Justice**

_“Let it be me.”_

The promise he had extorted from Carver rang through Anders’ mind as the events seemed to play before his eyes in slow motion. Time itself seemed to slow down. In his mind, he felt the pushing of Justice to take control.

_No—_

Anders’ will was not strong enough to overpower Justice’s. In the next moment, the spirit seized full control of his body. His eyes blazed bright white-blue, and the light extended through his veins, his skin, illuminating his head and neck in an unearthly light.

 _“You will never harm another Warden again!”_ Justice’s cold, commanding voice issued from Anders’ mouth. He raised his staff, eyes aflame with the fire of the Fade.

That brought the battle nearly to a standstill. The First Warden had a moment of doubt cross his cruel face, as he realized in a flash just how this one Warden had managed to defy his blood-magic commands and manipulation. The remaining archers and swordsmen supporting him stopped cold for a moment—but that was long enough for their opponents to seize the advantage.

In Anders’ body, Justice slammed the tip of his staff on the ground, sending a knockback hex at the First Warden. His body flew through the air and slammed against a pillar, slumping to the ground. Justice advanced on him, utterly furious.

Caitlyn watched, transfixed with awe and horror, as Justice—in Anders’ body—cast the most violent fireball she had ever seen from point-blank range at the First Warden. It struck him, melting flesh away gorily as he screamed his death screams, bloodied skin giving way to muscle and then bone. The other Wardens, enemy and ally, watched this, united in their disgust.

With the First Warden now dead, Justice— _or Vengeance?_ Caitlyn suddenly wondered with fear—turned around, glaring furiously at the combatants, eyes as white as winter. He did not hesitate. He struck the ground again with his staff, and a rain of fireballs—not as intense as the one that had melted the First Warden, but still dangerous and potentially lethal—burst into being in the air and fell to the ground randomly, singeing enemy and ally alike. Caught by a tongue of flame, Stroud leapt back.

 _“All who served Corypheus will die!”_ Justice shouted through Anders’ mouth. He held his staff threateningly, gazing in a semicircle across the great hall.

Fenris felled his opponent and gave an uneasy, apologetic glance to the Senior Warden of Antiva, who wielded a longbow.

 _“YOU!”_ Justice positively roared, pointing Anders’ right forefinger at a Senior Warden of Orlais, Devereaux. _“You were corrupted by Corypheus!”_

Devereaux drew his double blades threateningly. “I ran away after the first time I killed innocents on his evil command, abomination.” He took a step toward Justice-Anders.

_“You admit to killing innocents. They deserve justice!”_

“You’re one to talk,” Devereaux snarled, a dagger in each hand, his body tensed and ready to spring. Off to the side, the Senior Warden of Antiva nocked an arrow.

That was enough. Caitlyn dashed into the fray, wielding her mage’s staff, casting a strong ice spell at Anders. It struck, immobilizing him behind a layer of frost.

“Back off, all of you!” she shouted. “Don’t hurt him! I know how to deal with this!” She glanced quickly at Anders. Behind her encasing of ice, she saw with relief that his eyes were turning human and warm brown once again.

The Antivan archer lowered his bow. “You do that, then,” he said in disgust.

Devereaux did not sheathe his blades, but he lowered them as well. “Unless our new _First Warden Stroud_ has more to say about it. That abomination is a Grey Warden.”

“First Warden Jean-Marc Stroud!” the Grey Wardens present all acclaimed at once, raising their weapons skyward.

Caitlyn and Carver exchanged desperate glances. She then glanced at the ice-encrusted Anders, who was fully himself now. His face bore a horrified expression. With a single wave of her hand, she melted the ice away.

“We’re getting out of here _now,”_ she hissed, grabbing his hand and pulling him from the hall.

* * *

They ran hand-in-hand through the labyrinthine corridors of the Weisshaupt Keep, hoping to escape the fortress, find Orana— _and Malcolm—_ and once again make a desperate run for it. It was possible that Stroud would offer protection to Anders for being the one to kill the malevolent late First Warden, but they were not prepared to count on it after he, as Justice, had threatened and menaced their allies.

“I thought you had it under control!” Caitlyn exclaimed, her exasperation bursting forth as they rounded a corner only to realize that they had seen this place before. What kind of maze _was_ this castle? What in the Void was _wrong_ with the Grey Wardens to create fortresses of mazes, magical puzzles, blood-magic wards…? Stroud had his work cut out for him to clean up this messed-up order, Caitlyn decided.

“He apparently thought I would die if I stood on my own,” Anders protested.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t, but— _shit!”_

They found themselves face-to-face with Marcellus Viridius, the Tevinter mage who had joined the army that very morning.

“There is no need to be alarmed,” the Tevinter mage said suavely. “I mean you no harm.”

“Sure you don’t,” Caitlyn snapped.

“With all due respect, Champion of Kirkwall, _you_ are of little interest to me,” the Warden said coolly. “A powerful blood mage, yes, but we understand that perfectly well. It is your partner who is interesting to me.”

Anders gripped his staff. “Interesting, am I? And here I thought you wanted me to join your Warden command.”

“I do,” said Warden Marcellus. “Especially now that all of your… benighted… southern counterparts are afraid of you.” He smiled. “Champion, your brother has just been named Warden-Commander of Ansburg. Your partner could, of course, serve under him—”

“I’m not serving under Carver,” Anders said at once. “He is family, but… no.”

“Then you can either be a fugitive again, or you can come to my command in Tevinter.”

“And be experimented upon by maleficarum? I’ll take my chances on the run,” he said defiantly.

“Your partner is a maleficar,” said Marcellus. “And we will do nothing without your consent. There are few mages who could master a Fade spirit, so it is not a subject that we would research for… practical… purposes. But it is clear that the reason you could defy the late, unlamented First Warden’s power was the presence of this entity… what is it, a spirit of Justice?—and that moreover, you have a great deal of practice doing so, to be able to manage it. I assume that you were in the area of Corypheus’ influence, therefore?”

In spite of himself, Anders nodded.

“Your family is welcome, of course,” said Marcellus. “You have a child, I recall?”

“We do,” said Hawke.

“You may have your entire family with you if you come to Tevinter to serve as a Warden Mage,” said Marcellus. “We do not judge you. It is good that you struck the fatal blow against the corrupt First Warden, even if you did so under the influence of a spirit. In Tevinter, we do not fear spirits. We are interested in the nature of your bond with yours, but we would not do anything to damage you or anything at all without your consent. We respect fellow Wardens, especially mage Wardens. What say you?”

He glanced at Caitlyn, nonverbally asking permission.

She considered it. This Warden seemed a bit slimy to her… but he _did_ have the endorsement of Dorian Pavus, a good man. And, honestly, what other options did they have? If they had been just a couple, without a child, it might have made sense to take their chances as fugitives once again. They had managed it for four years, after all. However, they had a son now, who deserved a settled life.

She gave him a subtle nod.

He turned back to Marcellus. “I accept your offer—provided that we really are allowed to keep our son without interference.”

“The Grey Wardens have no claim on your child. I am sure he will compete for a spot in the Tevinter Circle of Magi in due time.”

A light like the morning sun dawned across Anders’ face. “I always wanted to have something like a normal life as a mage,” he said quietly.

Marcellus smirked. “You can at my post. Now, shall we return to the great hall to tell First Warden Stroud what we have decided?”

They exchanged another glance. “Yes,” Caitlyn said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

A few days later, Caitlyn hugged Carver, Merrill, and all of her other friends again.

“Who knows when we will meet again?” she cried as she hugged Aveline. She had never had the closest bond with Aveline of all her Kirkwall companions, but somehow, other than her own brother, Aveline was the friend she valued most now.

“We’ll meet again,” said the warrior with a smile.

Fenris gazed at them. “Blessings to you. Tevinter is about to face a great trial, I think. I am glad that you are allied with friends of Dorian Pavus. He is… a good mage. I have heard of his work with a dissident, antislavery group of mages and magisters….”

“We will always be vigilant about these Grey Wardens, too,” said Caitlyn.

“A wise idea.”

Orana would return to Kirkwall with Aveline, as much as it saddened Caitlyn. It just was not a good idea yet for a free elf to be in Tevinter, even as a paid servant. She could not work directly for Caitlyn, but rather, for the Grey Wardens, and Caitlyn did not entirely trust them—even Warden Marcellus. She expected that she would have to keep a close watch on him to make sure that he did not draw Anders into anything that would create problems.

“I thank you so much for protecting my son,” she said, hugging her old servant.

“It was an honor, my lady.”

Later, the small family accompanied the Tevinter Wardens across the border. Caitlyn exchanged a glance with Anders, hugged Malcolm close, and gazed ahead at the horizon.


End file.
